


Rotten Work

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Bisexual Characters, Co-workers, Crossdressing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Gay Rights, James Fitzjames in a Dress, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Pining, Secret Crush, Sickfic, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21558355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: James Fitzjames, COO of Erebus Voyages, has a tragic crush on his straight colleague, Francis Crozier. (Well. He thinks Francis is straight.) There’s no way his tender feelings will ever be returned, is there?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 76
Kudos: 233





	Rotten Work

**Author's Note:**

> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings

James scrambled out of his Tesla Model S with all the dignity he could muster while balancing a paper tray of Starbucks orders. A pink drink for himself, because he deserved a treat; a nitro flat white for Sir John, God bless him; iced dark chocolate mochas for Goodsir and Silna; and an espresso for Francis, because he was boring. James had to guess at his preference, and he hoped he guessed right: this meeting was of crucial importance, and he depended on Francis’ sympathies to get his proposal through. He also just really _wanted_ his approval.

He crossed the car park with a confidence he didn’t quite feel, checking his distorted reflection in the windows he passed. He looked all right; looked the part. A bespoke suit for spring, all white save for the navy jacket; no tie, the top three buttons tastefully undone, pocket square snug, Oxford shoes gleaming in the light. The cologne choice for today was a ritzy spray of a custom made oakwood and bay oil mix, which surrounded him with an air of bold assurance he desperately needed.

He was beginning to doubt if this meeting was a good idea at all. He’d propose a carnival. Pride month was fast approaching, and Erebus Voyages had never done anything to commemorate it in the cruise company’s long and complicated history. It was time for a change, and, as COO, he felt it was his responsibility to bring it about.

⚓

“Is this a publicity stunt?” Francis asked, fountain pen pointed forward like a dagger.

James stood still in front of the last slide of his PowerPoint that explained in excruciating detail why Rainbow Carnival would be anything but.

“No,” he said, sounding more upset than he would’ve preferred. Francis arched an eyebrow at him, then leant back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His espresso was untouched in front of him. His beige linen suit was creased, his blue tie had seen better days, but he still managed to radiate a soul-crushing amount of authority. James turned to Sir John; it wasn’t beneath him to use puppy eyes, but Sir John was staring into mid-distance, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The last word would be his: Francis was the CEO, but Sir John was the founder and chairman.

He was also a devoted Christian.

“Harry?” Sir John asked. Goodsir looked surprised that anyone would care for his input; he stopped mid-sip, then swallowed the mocha quickly and squinted at the projection on the wall. James had spent hours on choosing a tasteful template.

“I do believe it’s high time we’ve shown support to the LGBTQIA community,” Goodsir said carefully, “but corporate Pride is always a delicate issue, you see, Mr. Fitzjames. Even if our intentions are right, it could be seen as a publicity...thing.” 

“Surely our social media expert can take care of publicity,” James interjected, nodding to Silna approvingly. She gave him an unimpressed look. She was wearing a crop top, paper bag trousers and combat boots, and getting away with all of it. She signed something to Goodsir; he watched her hands fondly. He looked more like your favourite daycare teacher than the chief HR officer, but his approachability had a hidden power. James relied on his empathy as he looked at him beseechingly, but he had no hope of diverting his attention.

He heard a rustle and noticed that Francis was signing back at Silna, the motions much less fluid than her own, but alarmingly _opinionated_ by the look of them. James reached for his pink drink abandoned on the podium and took a nervous sip. The cup was empty. An embarrassing slurping sound filled the sun-soaked boardroom. James flinched.

“I have to agree with Silna,” Francis announced at length. “We have little cause to celebrate. She’s still the only woman we employ, and people of colour are not much better represented. It would be a terribly white and male parade.”

“James is Portuguese,” Sir John volunteered and gave him a fatherly smile. James smiled back, pained. He tried not to fidget.

“And I’m not the only one from an ethnic minority,” he said, “still—”

“Our positions are open to any gender, sexuality and ethnicity, always have been,” Sir John interrupted. James was preoccupied with trying to avoid Francis’ icy glare. “God loves all his children equally. He will guide them to us, I’m certain.” 

Francis muttered something about religious freedom. James was staring at his notes, the neat bullet points fading into a blur. His heart and soul was in Rainbow Parade; his blood, sweat and tears. It wasn’t enough. For some reason, it was not enough.

“If about a hundred employees out of our hundred and twenty-nine are still white, straight, able-bodied and cis male, we could clearly do better, and stop waiting for a miracle,” he said, to the bafflement of both Francis and Sir John.

He was surprised, too, to hear himself contradict his superior. That wasn’t how he’d made COO. You don’t get to the top by being a disagreeable little shit, unless you were Francis. But still: didn’t his personal success make him responsible to pave the way for other minorities?

“It’s not a celebration,” he went on. “Yes, we have no cause for that. It’s an _invitation_ to show that we’re a safe, welcoming workspace for all. We can’t wait until we get better at fixing past mistakes. The change has to start _now_. It has to start at rethinking how we reach out to future employees, how we evaluate them, how they get represented, paid, whether we respond well to their unique needs. But we need something attention-grabbing, too, showy and extraordinary. We _need_ to do something big for this Pride month.” He jabbed at his notes. “If the world can’t hear our call, we need to shout. We need to show the employees we already have that we will do better in future, do our best, and we need to show the people we want to work with that they _already_ have a place here, and always will.”

He was a bit breathless by the time he finished and his hair fell over his face. He felt Francis staring. He waited for him to turn away, like he always did, disappointed, dismissive, unaffected. Instead, Francis said, “Very well. Let’s discuss the proposition from this angle, then.”

James’ heart leapt.

⚓

Francis was tragically straight. James was past the age of falling for men who could never be attracted to him; he was also too old to have a crush on his workspace nemesis, or to have a nemesis of any sort at all.

It didn’t stop him.

It was a personal shortcoming: one of many.

The thing with Francis was an innocent little fancy that had gotten out of hand. Francis used to work for Terra Nova Travels. James had been petty enough to nickname his company Terror. He never expected an Erebus-Terror merge and that the passive aggressive emails would turn into open warfare during heated personal meetings.

It had been evident from Francis’ past emails that he was intelligent, ruthlessly thorough, the best man for his job, but insufferably straightforward, humourless, disciplined to a fault, with the occasional moody drama. However, nothing indicated that he would be _hot_. A proper snack, as far as James was concerned: his piercing blue eyes, the set of his brows, his wide shoulders just as attractive as the very fact of his maddening unattainability.

James was far too headstrong to give up a good challenge. But he should’ve known better than to tempt the impossible. Maybe it was the sweet torture; maybe the security of wanting something he could never have; maybe it was arrogance. He knew that checking his hair before stepping into Francis’ field of vision was futile, but he still made sure that his locks curled just _so_.

Francis was working on his battered old laptop with a cardigan thrown over his shoulders. (The AC was acting up again. It blasted an icy gale at the open office space all day, and Francis’ spot was just by the windows.) He managed to barricade his desk from the rest of the office through the strategic use of whiteboards, boxes and dossiers. James tapped on his defenses with his phone. The movement must’ve attracted Francis’ attention more than the soft sound: he pulled his noise cancelling headphones down to his neck and gave James a curious glance.

It shouldn’t have made his stomach feel tight, just to be looked at. He was an adult. A professional.

“Sir John sent me the names for the Rainbow Carnival task force,” he said without biting his lips once, which was progress, all things considered.

“Did he?”

“Hickey’s on it.”

Francis’ brows furrowed. He moved his fingers for James’ phone. James handed it over before remembering, just as Francis’ fingers closed around it, that he had Grindr installed. It wasn’t like Francis didn’t know he was queer, right? James did his best to make it bloody obvious, but a hookup app thrust into his colleague’s face was maybe just a step too far.

“Let me,” he said as he yanked the phone out of Francis’ grip and held it close to his chest while he pulled up the file, trying to look innocent. He cleared his throat and handed it back with careless grace, but it was too late. Francis was staring. And he didn’t say anything. Never did, when he got like this. Only the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed that he made the decision to let James off the hook.

James clenched and unclenched a fist behind his back.

“Tozer, Des Voeux, Diggle and Armitage, huh,” Francis read, peering at the screen. He was squinting slightly. Refused to wear glasses. 

“Yeah,” James said, admitting defeat. Their glances met. Francis must’ve seen something there, because even before James steeled himself to ask for help, possibly even beg, Francis handed the phone back and buttoned up his cardigan.

“Follow me,” he said curtly.

They marched through the office like captains going into battle. The effect was a tad diminished by Francis’ adorable cardigan (it even had elbow patches), but he still cut a threatening figure. Everybody sat up straighter as they passed their desks; Little even greeted them with a muttered “sir,” while Blanky only winked.

Hickey made no sign to acknowledge he noticed them advancing. He was sprawled over his chair, cocooned in at least three blankets (which were for common use). He didn’t close either the reddit thread or the youtube video on his screen, just let Francis and James hover for a moment, then, apparently satisfied with the demonstration of his antics, pulled out one pink earbud and smiled at them broadly.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Top of the mornin’ to ya. What can I do for you?”

The most absurd part of Hickey faking his CV was his insistance that he was Irish. Maddeningly, they couldn’t disprove it, or any of the information he’d given. Sir John, for some unfathomable reason, was impressed with the lad.

James leant over Hickey’s table, an arm on his hip, ready to deliver thorough scolding; a look from Francis stopped him.

“Mr. Hickey,” Francis said evenly. James had learnt to dread that calm tone. “We noticed you’ve been appointed to assist with organising Erebus’ Pride event.”

“Mr. Franklin handpicked me,” Hickey said. The smug little smile, the glint in his wide eyes made it look like boasting. James saw through it.

“It’s still voluntary work,” he said. “Are you aware that you won’t be financially compensated for your efforts?”

“It doesn’t pay, yeah.” Hickey nodded, his smile unfaltering. The sound of distorted laughter could be heard from the earbud dangling from his neck. “I already said yes. I’m happy to work for our community.”

Francis gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No doubt,” he said, and put a hand on the back of Hickey’s chair. “I just think you’re the kind of man who works best if your task inspires you. Without inspiration, you might...stall.” He moved his hand a little, making Hickey face his screen.

James had to hide a chuckle. Watching Francis work had always been a thrill. Hickey’s expression never changed, but James noticed a momentary tick of drumming fingertips: the frustration of a person who thought they’d got away with murder. 

“What inspires you?” Francis asked.

“Pardon, sir?”

“I want to know what inspires you,” he repeated, “so you can be your most efficient.”

Hickey frowned. “A reward?”

“An offer.”

Hickey considered it. He fidgeted with the frill of the blankets, then paused and announced, pleased, “Catering.”

“Catering,” Francis repeated.

“I’m passionate about food.”

James looked at the empty wraps of instant ramen covering his desk. Met Francis’ gaze. A silent conversation passed between them: _do you have any idea what he’s playing at?_

 _No_ , the tilt of Francis’ head said, _but our best bet is to let him do his thing._

“Catering it is,” Francis said and let go of his chair. Hickey smiled at them again, put his earbuds back. James refused to leave until he saw Hickey open a spreadsheet. It was completely blank.

⚓

James poured white wine over the steaming clams and prawns: a whiff of chili, ripe tomatoes and bay leaves rose from the pan. The smell summoned his brother Will, just as it always had when they were kids and James still needed a stool to reach the cooker when he was making their breakfast egg and sausages.

“What’s cooking?” he asked, peering over James’ shoulder. He was somewhat shorter; his hair a light brown, skin ivory, eyes a dreamy grey. They shared neither blood nor a surname, but his hand on James’ back was the only assurance of brotherhood James ever needed.

“ _Cataplana de Marisco_ ,” he announced proudly, putting the lid over the pan with some flair. Will hummed in hungry approval, but then pulled a face, as if remembering something.

“Bess told you we’re doing a potluck, right? You could feed an army with this.”

“Please, everybody will want a taste of _my_ cooking.”

They both looked at the patio behind the French windows: no guests were present yet, but Bess and the kids were busy setting up chairs—at least twenty of them. The weather was lovely: a balmy English spring day in Brighton, the roses in full bloom and the promise of a fantastic company arriving soon. James would amaze everybody with his dish, as always. He could hardly wait to mingle, wine in hand, drifting from acquaintance to acquaintance in easy chatter. It was Will’s party, so the topic would be politics, but James had some insights on Hong Kong he really wanted to share, preferably well after Bess brought out the cocktails.

It occurred to him, involuntary, how Francis might spend his weekends. James couldn’t imagine him willingly driving two hours on the A23 just to be with friends and family. He was probably holed up in his flat. No telly. A book, perhaps. Would he listen to podcasts?

He realised Will asked something.

“Sorry?” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, self-consciously.

Will recognised the gesture and scoffed at it. Leant on the counter and said, “You know that Bess will want the _deets_ on Rainbow Carnival, right? She’s excited about the dress.”

“Is she?”

“Rather.” Will reached for an orange conspicuously. James swatted his thieving hand.

“Those are for the dessert!”

“Yeah, _this_ one’s for _me_.”

James glared at him, but let him peel it. “So,” Will intoned, “will it be a drag ball?”

James mock-curtsied. “I’ll be the only queen.”

“Of course.”

“Always.”

Bess came through the French window, swiping her hands on her jeans. Will announced around a mouthful of orange, “Fitzy is just telling me about Carnival.”

“Oh, love, I’ll make you so pretty!”

“I’m always pretty,” James said as he bowed for a kiss on the cheek.

“Have you settled on a theme?” Bess asked, and peered into the pot through the glass lid. “Fuck me, _cataplana de Marisco_ , you absolute star.”

“Theme’s navy,” James said smugly. Will grimaced and swallowed his orange.

“Is that wise? Could get a tad political.”

“There’s no Pride without politics, camp or outrage.” James shrugged. “It’s gotta be at least a bit provocative, doesn’t it? I don’t want an, ah, polite event. It’d look fake. Be fake.”

Will nodded sagely, but added, “Sir John’s okay with it?”

“We’ll try to keep it generally nautical,” James reassured him. “No Royal Marines harmed.”

⚓

The first thing he noticed in the office on Monday was the silence. Then, the wary glances; the lack of headphones. He stopped by Collins’ desk and murmured, “Report.”

“Tuunbaq’s loose,” Collins whispered back. James nodded solemnly. He reached for the sunglasses pushed up to his forehead and pocketed them cautiously. Tuunbaq had trashed his favourite pair last time. They were Givenchy. James was not going to lose a Prada.

He made his way through the vast whiteness of the freezing office. Not a sound could be heard, just the creak of his shoes and soft typing all around. He reached the executive sector, creeping, soft on his toes. Noticed Francis, who gave him a meaningful glance. Looked at his own desk. Silna’s dog was curled up in his white leather chair. His shoulders slumped. He just let his laptop bag slide off his arm.

“You let him take my chair,” he said to Francis in a tone of hurt and betrayal.

“His chair now,” Francis corrected him.

James barked a bitter laugh. Francis smiled warily, but showing teeth. James couldn’t help but stare at the adorable gap between them. Couldn’t help but wonder when Francis had started telling jokes. He met Francis’ eyes when he realised he’d been staring at his mouth for far too long.

“Just be respectful,” Francis said gently. “He’s protecting his territory. Can’t help it, poor bastard.”

“Yeah, nah.” James sniffed. “I’ll set up base on the roof or something.”

Francis considered this briefly, then reached for his laptop. “That’s not a bad idea at all, you know. Can I join?”

Tuunbaq growled.

⚓

The thing with Francis was that they worked remarkably well together if they put their mind to it. They just rarely did. Lounging on weather-beaten beanbags, under the cover of potted palm trees, James pondered why was that the case. Francis sat within reach, somber even atop a neon pink heap, his aftershave hardly distracting James from their discussion of carbon efficiency and Francis’ plan for a 35% reduction. He was following the conversation as closely as anyone smelling Old Spice Classic on a very attractive colleague could. 

“That’s where we could actually collaborate,” James told him. “If I want every single pool on every single Erebus ship to have a lifeguard on duty—”

“As you bloody well should.”

“Well, yes, tell that to Admiralty Holdings—I _want_ that, but that means that a number of cabins will be occupied by crew members, not paying customers, and I just hit a wall there. I hit an _iceberg_. I keep being told my proposal is not _cost-effective_. We’d need a cut somewhere, and you _know_ what they always cut.”

“My budget.”

“Your budget. Sustainability. But we’re on the same page, trying to reduce preventable deaths to zero, I on our cruise ships and you on, well, planet Earth. So I think that if you look at the principles, the basic principles, we’re working for the same thing, and instead of torpedoing each other, we should—”

“Torpedo the rollercoaster.”

“Torpedo the rollercoaster,” James said with emphasis, pointing a finger at his screen. He was balancing his MacBook on his knees. Francis inched closer to look at the figures displayed. “Cut the budget, or abandon the project—”

Francis sighed. “Listen, I can tell Sir John that nobody will _care_ whether a cruise ship to the Arctic has a rollercoaster on deck or not if we have dead tourists floating in the aqua park and the rest choking on 10690 kilo-tonnes of carbon dioxide, _but_ you know he’ll just call me a killjoy and ignore the proposal.”

“Maybe word it differently,” James suggested, trying to banish the mental image of a corpse in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops having his last hurrah in the whirlpool.

“It is a life or death question,” Francis insisted, “both on a local and global scale. If I’m presenting it as anything else than that, I’m downplaying our responsibility.”

“We’d just have to be diplomatic about it,” James said. “I know from a reliable source that the rollercoaster was Jane’s idea.”

Francis closed his eyes. “Of course it was her idea,” he sighed.

“So Sir John likes it and the Admiralty likes it because it brings in more customers, but this is the obvious place to cut, and if we let them know that neither of us will agree to a budget cut on _each other’s_ projects, then I could have my lifeguards and you could have—”

“I won’t have _crap_ if it was Jane’s idea,” Francis grumbled.

“Just work with me here,” James said and placed a hand on Francis’ knee without thinking about it. He didn’t flinch or move away. James swallowed, squeezed it awkwardly and withdrew. Cleared his throat.

“So you’ll tell Sir John that you disapprove of his plan?” Francis asked, tone skeptical, but eyes gleaming with tentative hope. “That you’ll _absolutely_ refuse to vote on it? You’ll tell that to his face?”

James bit his lips. “I think you should tell him off the record that we came to an agreement and go from there,” he said, slow and sheepish.

Francis’ face fell. It was like an iron curtain had descended. “So when he refuses to go along, you can just throw me under the bus. Pretend it was my idea and you just played along.”

“Now, listen—”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Francis bit back. “Would it, James?”

“You have to consider my position—”

“Yeah, we can’t forget about your position.”

“I do want us to be friends,” James blurted. “Perhaps it’d be easier if you didn’t expect me to fuck you over at any given opportunity.”

“Perhaps it’d be easier if you _didn’t_ fuck me over at any given opportunity,” Francis said coldly. “You always take Sir John’s side, who _rarely_ takes mine. How could I ever count on you?”

“ _Perhaps_ by not being so ride-or-die about business loyalties. It’s nothing—personal.”

Francis grimaced, muttered something inaudible, and turned to his laptop. James knew he was losing him; desperately searched for something to say, but he wasn’t about to make a blood pact over budgets. Explaining the delicate intricacies of the life of an executive would be in vain: Francis knew the struggles of it better than most. What he didn’t know was that not all of them could afford to make noble decisions, to maintain the luxury of saying _no_ to superiors. He’d have no sympathy: in Francis’ book, tactfulness was the same as deceit.

It made James feel like a fake.

Maybe the idea Francis had of him was on the money. James Fitzjames, a yes-man too preoccupied with taking care of number one to make an _impact_.

“Hey,” he said softly. Francis glared at him. “I’m going to go grab a pint with the lads tonight. You could come, if you wanted. Bury the battleaxe. Put aside work and just have a beer with me, eh?”

If he had one talent in the world, it was for making friends. He anxiously waited Francis’ answer: not many refused that particular winsome smile he flashed at them or the warm glance to go with it. The blatant offer of companionship: surely, Francis could appreciate it. To not see each other as colleagues as rivals for once, but as they _were_.

“Not a beer guy,” Francis said gravely.

“Whisky, then. No. Gin? Have I guessed correctly?”

“I don’t—”

The roof’s door creaked open. They both fell silent as Sir John emerged with his pipe, panama hat sitting cheerfully on his forehead. He regarded them with gratified surprise. They sat close: the barrier between them was invisible.

“Well, I never!” Sir John said jovially. “What’s this secret gathering?”

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” James joked, forcing a grin on his face. Francis got to his feet; he snapped his laptop shut without saving any of his files.

“Hilarious,” he said, and strode past Sir John, making his way across the roof like a cannonball.

Sir John watched him leave in a blaze of fury, then turned to James, shaking his head. “That wasn’t very sporting,” he remarked, and sucked on his pipe. “You know he’s a recovering alcohol addict.”

“I didn’t—” James said, then added, with emphasis, “ _Crap_.”

Sir John let out a puff of smoke, arching an eyebrow. “You should ask my niece. Does she have stories! Does she ever.”

“How was _I_ to know?” James moaned, slumping back in the beanbag. “He never shares anything about himself! How was I supposed to guess—”

“I’m sure he’ll accept your apology,” Sir John said and took his seat in Francis’ abandoned place.

James groaned in pain. “No, this is _bad_.” He felt Sir John’s gaze on himself as he rubbed his temples.

“What were you conferring about?”

James stilled the movement of his hands, thought for a moment, then said, hardly a whisper, “Won’t matter now.”

⚓

“I’m home,” he announced to his darkened apartment on Cumberland Terrace. Nails clicked on the hardwood floor as Neptune advanced and attempted to lick James’ face while he tried to shake off his jacket and get the lights at the same time. He ended up elbowing the switch with an enthusiastic doggy kiss on his chin. He rubbed Neptune behind his ears and inched towards the living room, toeing off his shoes. “Yeah, I know, barely eleven, daddy’s early. Had to call it a day to be miserable on my own sofa, life’s be like that sometimes.”

His steps were uncertain, the taste of craft ale lingering on his tongue and turning too sour. He dived onto his vintage sofa with no decorum; Neptune followed. James hooked his arms around him, turning his back to the room at large, the bookshelf, the piano, the easel and the Xbox, refusing their comforts. He’d had moderate fun tonight. He didn’t deserve fun.

“Alexa, play Adagio in G minor by Tomaso Albinoni,” he groaned. The sound of sorrowful strings washed through the place, all but shaking the watercolours on the high walls. James let his eyes drift shut and buried his face into Neptune’s warm fur. “That’s better,” he mumbled.

⚓

He thought about sending an apology to Francis, but he only had his work email in his contacts: the unprofessional approach wouldn’t be appreciated. His admission of guilt would be more impactful in person, besides. He could afford to wait.

Except tomorrow came, and with it, a hangover and a nagging headache. He’d forgotten to hydrate, and he was in his forties. His party heydays were behind him. It felt like life was passing him by, in flashing colours and static screeching, as he crawled through the office, nursing a La Croix. Francis was on a conference call. James kept his polite distance, focusing on his own tasks. He was in the middle of a call when Francis finished with his own and left for a meeting. When he returned, his intern Jopson was with him, then Blanky from IT.

The lunch break brought no opening: James had a meeting scheduled at the Ritz. He was back on his phone after that, then had a teamwork session with Le Vesconte and Stanley, which led to a one-on-one with Stan discussing the stigma around antidepressants. James managed to convince him that there was no shame in taking a mental health break, and that he could do it on paid leave. The discussion was informal but necessary, and James had no regret devoting his time to it, even though he saw Francis through the glass wall of the conference room as he was leaving the building. Francis didn’t look in his direction.

The next day would’ve made the apology awkward, made it feel like an afterthought. James tried to croak it out anyway, but Francis was busy: he had a calculator at hand and was making murderous faces at the screen. His noise cancelling headphones remained on for most of the day. Asking him to take them off just so James could say he was sorry wouldn’t guarantee Francis’ forgiveness. They finished around the same time, but James had a film night scheduled with friends and an underground to catch, so he didn’t say anything. At this point, he owed a long, heartfelt apology or nothing.

He supposed he could substitute it all with gestures of goodwill, express his regret that way. Nothing overt: he couldn’t cheapen it to a bargain. He made attempts at small talk, refrained from using emojis in work emails (Francis had scolded him for more than once), congratulated Francis on his presentation at Thursday’s goals meeting and pretended he’d made too many scones for breakfast. Francis didn’t take them. Muttered something about not liking flour.

Still, by the next week, they’d settled back into their old routine. They were _talking_ , when absolutely necessary, and James no longer felt actively ignored. He was being tolerated again. That was the best he could ever hope for.

⚓

“What does he have against rollercoasters? How bitter one must be not to like them?” Sir John mused, out of breath. He and James were doing laps around Regent’s Park—at a much more leisurely pace than James was used to on his private jogs, but in far better company. He was making the most of his Alexander Wang tracksuit, while Sir John opted for a sweatband, polo shirt and old shorts. They would’ve made an odd pair if Sir John wasn’t an expert on how to wear such attire with flabbergasting dignity.

“It’s not that he doesn’t like them,” James explained, then added, “I believe.”

“He behaves as if I proposed the idea especially to upset him,” Sir John bemoaned. He dabbed at his forehead with a mournful expression. “How little he must think of me.”

“He doesn’t think highly of anybody,” James said. After a pause: “He does respect you.”

“And I, him. But I do feel he takes certain things far too seriously, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You must consider his position. He’s just trying to do his job, to protect us from irresponsible decisions—decisions that could be considered irresponsible, if you look at the environmental impact of—”

“The environmental impact,” Sir John repeated, glancing heavenwards. “Oh, I don’t want to hear about it. Every time I think we’re going to have a nice meeting, he reminds us of polar bears. Not a word more! No, let’s talk of good news. Your Rainbow Carnival is coming along nicely, isn’t it? Have you heard that Goodsir invited the lesbians?”

“ _The_ lesbians?” James asked with a smirk, still thinking about the the previous topic of conversation. He should stand up for Francis; but what could he do, when Sir John was in such a mood? “ _All_ of them?”

“Oh, don’t!” Sir John punched his shoulder, good-humoured. James couldn’t help but grin. Francis’ name was still on the tip of his tongue. Sir John gripped his arm; James helped to support his weight, let him take a few steady breaths. “It’s an organisation,” Sir John panted. “An employment agency for lesbian ladies.”

“I hope they’ll accept the invite,” James said, and once Sir John could breathe again, casually added, “Have you told Francis?”

Sir John waved it away. Before James could open his mouth to say, _speaking of Francis_ or _which reminds me, back to our original point_ , Sir John stretched painfully, and confided, “Francis excused himself from Carnival duties.”

“Oh,” James said. “Well. He has a lot on his plate. And it’s voluntary. Could’ve used his input. But er. That’s that, then.”

Sir John squeezed his arm in sympathy, then let go.

⚓

“I should just take it to the dry cleaner,” James announced as he carefully put his faux fur stole into the washing machine.

“No, no, it’s okay, just turn it, er, _do avesso_ ,” Glória told him.

“‘Inside-out,” James translated for her.

“Inside-out,” Glória repeated proudly.

There was something incredibly personal in teaching his mother English words, the same way she’d taught him Portuguese when he was a baby. He squinted at the screen: his phone was propped up on top of the washing machine. It was strange that he remembered the language but could hardly recall her face for most of his life. They didn’t look alike: she was a small woman with olive skin and curly hair, eyes dark behind her heavy-rimmed Vogue glasses. Maybe he inherited her fashion sense, that love of extravagance.

He’d only managed to track her down while he was doing his master’s degree, the same year he’d decided to reconnect with his biological father. That attempt hadn’t gone well, but Glória was different. He’d flown out to Portugal, uncertain what to expect. He’d known fragments of his history from his foster family: how he was born out of an affair; that his biological mother was a Catholic and wouldn’t get rid of him, but was in no position to raise him. It wasn’t anything tragic—she was well-to-do and healthy, but an unwanted baby was still too much responsibility. His biological father had promised to raise him. Had taken him to Britain when he was three, gave him over to some cousins who didn’t know what to do with a kid who hardly spoke English. The Coninghams had come to his rescue, eventually. They weren’t his relatives in any way. 

James often wondered what his life would’ve been like if his father hadn't lied, hadn’t promised to take care of him just to give him away. If Glória had found a way to keep him.

He’d taken her to a café, been treated to a birthday cake—she’d remembered; they’d talked for hours. He’d walked her home; got introduced to her adult kids, her _other_ kids. Her new family, the one she could afford to have. At the end of the day, he’d got into his rental car; she was on the porch, seeing him off, and he’d told her, “This is strange, because I already have a mother. Back in England. I like you very much, but I don’t _feel_ the relation between us. Is that terribly unkind of me?” And she’d been so relieved: her shoulders dropped. “Thank God you said that,” she’d sighed.

They’d agreed to be friends.

James nudged the washing machine shut with a socked foot. “There goes nothing,” he said.

“It’ll be okay,” Glória reassured him. “Tell me how you are doing while it starts.”

James ruffled up his hair. “Stressing about Carnival. It should be fine. The men worked hard. Went to see an old friend today, Ned, y’know, my ex-flatmate, he has a _kid_ , it’s wild, her name is Alice _Fitzjames_ Charlewood, poor sod. I’m her godfather. Godless father of sin. Will’s doing okay, the meds are working. Sophie is putting together a trip to St Petersburg, so that’s gonna be exciting, _if_ we make it; everyone’s busy. Dundy’s is about to have the stag party of the century, so we’re preparing for that with the lads, too; Gore’s his best man so it’s gonna be a riot, but we’re going to do a wine and cheese thing before that, because we’re pretending to be sophisticated adults. Um. What else? Neptune has a new toy and he just hates it. Francis hates _me_ …have I told you about Francis? Must’ve. Hot colleague who hates me?”

“ _Querido_ ,” Glória said softly. “How are _you_?” 

The fist in his hair tightened. “Keeping it together. Best as I can.”

⚓

It was a boat party. It only seemed fitting. They sent out Erebus Voyages’ best superyacht, the _Barretto Junior_ , on the Thames with the sole job of attracting as much attention as possible while it made its rounds between Kew Bridge and the Tower. It was lit up with an abundance of string lights, the decks decorated with fresh flowers and teeming with guests. James estimated around two hundred people: an ideal turnout. Even the catering was good.

“I’m astonished,” he told Hickey as he dipped pastry into a blue cheese and walnut dip. The dips came in recyclable paper cups and with an exciting variety: the sliced vegetables, sausages and pastry strips to go with them were good and fresh.

Hickey beamed. “Only the best for the office, eh?”

Francis looked less convinced. He dipped a piece of celery into a roasted beetroot dip with an apprehensive expression, but was immediately convinced by the taste when he bit into it. He made a downright orgasmic face, which distracted James from the conversation with Hickey for a full five seconds. Francis was wearing a double-breasted navy coat with gold details that he probably got from H&M, but was pulling it off with little to no effort. The vintage cap was definitely borrowed; the cable knit white sweater and the wellingtons were his own. It was a remarkably chilly night, but James’ blood ran hot as he watched Francis in his cute costume smack his lips, chasing the taste.

“Good job,” he told Hickey curtly. “What about the drinks?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Hickey turned on his heels to lean over the bar. The back of his bedazzled short shorts read KISS ME ARSE, HARDY. James suppressed a sigh. Hickey produced a foaming pint and presented it to Francis. “We have Guinness on tap.”

James opened his mouth to say something. Possibly to scream.

“Maybe something non-alcoholic,” Francis said smoothly, almost cheery. Hickey adjusted his sailor crop top nonchalantly.

“Yeah, it’s alcohol-free. Guinness Zero.”

Francis frowned. “Didn’t know they made non-alcoholic stouts.”

“Oh, they do. For the Indonesian market.” He nudged the pint into Francis’ hand. “Tastes like the real stuff.” 

“We’ll see,” Francis muttered. The moment was broken by a nervous-looking Gibson in a Nelson-esque uniform.

“Babe, can you come?”

“What, without foreplay? Whoa.” Hickey pulled a face, then gave Francis and James fingerguns. “See ya around!”

James watched him make his way through the crowd. He really hoped Hickey’s shorts wouldn’t catch too much attention. He was doing his utmost to keep Rainbow Carnival classy. The underwater decorations of the bar were too nice to be overshadowed by some offensive slogan. “That outfit is certainly...out there,” he remarked.

Francis looked him over the brim of his glass. “You’re one to talk,” he said.

James scoffed. “Excuse _me_.”

He looked gorgeous. He knew he did. His evening gown cascaded to the ground like a midnight waterfall, dripping with pearls: it was one of Bess’ best designs to date, and they tailored it to fit James _perfectly_. A tasteful slit let him move easily and show off the silver shoes that were almost impossible to purchase in his size. The dress’ back was open, but his fur stole kept him warm. He had opera gloves and a clutch bag to boot; pearls were woven into his hair. No makeup or fake breasts, but he _had_ tucked and waxed.

“The theme was navy,” Francis murmured into his beer. He scowled.

James grabbed the skirt and made it sway. “What colour do you think it _is_?”

Francis licked his lips, waited a beat and said, “Dark blue.”

“You’re unbelievable,” James bit back and turned to the bar. He could use a drink or two. Snapping at Francis wouldn’t do; he was technically the host—he should be chipper and charming and, more importantly, he should be making his rounds chatting to everybody, join the damn dance on the upper deck, maybe, do his _thing_. They were two hours into the festivities, and everything was going smoothly besides Francis’ brooding. James was determined not to let it affect him. He grabbed a glass of wine from a plate.

“I didn’t mean you don’t look good,” Francis said slowly, as if the words had to be pulled out of him surgically. “You look very good.”

“Yes, you didn’t _mean_ that,” James said, by reflex, and sailed away, his skirt swimming behind him. He was halfway through the room when he realised Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier had just paid him a bloody compliment.

⚓

The dance deck was the best deck, there could be no question about that. The low-lit dance floor was crowded: James made sure of that, playing matchmaker, introducing the people who lingered near each other, creating shy dance groups of four and urging couples to go return for an encore. The music was nostalgic, slow, easy to just sway around to. Bridgens and Peglar never left the centre, foreheads pressed together, completely lost in each other. Silna and Goodsir had a go at it, with Silna leading: they seemed to be wearing matching outfits, Goodsir in a kitschy tourist shirt of Trafalgar Square and Silna in a tank top commemorating ABBA’s hit song _Waterloo_. They also had an ace badge each. Tuunbaq, tied to a bar stool, looked oddly adorable with his rainbow collar. There were sailors and mermaids to be seen, navy uniforms from pinup to vintage, Napoleon Bonaparte and Spongebob Squarepants. Collins went all out in an old-fashioned diver’s uniform, his boyfriend a zombie sailor (the costume probably a Halloween find) attempting to give him beer through the pipe.

James was on his sixth glass of wine, having a grand old time, turning Francis’ off-handed praise over in his mind. He could distract himself with the constant stream of acquaintances, but found himself uncharacteristically alone when Francis entered, just on cue with Bobby Darin’s sweet and romantic _Beyond the Sea_. Their eyes met across the dance floor. Normally, James would’ve smiled, thrown his drink back and strode up to his date-to-be. _Normal_ didn’t work with Francis. He was impossible to flirt with. Moreover, one compliment after an argument didn’t mean he’d welcome it. He was straight, for goodness’ sake. It could never go beyond coy compliments. James knew better than to settle for that.

Francis looked thoroughly uncomfortable, as always, holding onto a fresh pint of Guinness Zero, eyes downcast. He was escorted by Blanky, who was donning an elaborate pirate outfit, trousers rolled up to show off his prosthetic leg. He grabbed Francis’ arm and gently guided him through the room, whispering something urgently to him. James decided to empty his glass in one definite gulp.

Finally, Francis reached him, only to be pushed an additional step forward by Blanky. He shot a murderous glance at Blanky, then turned to James promptly and cleared his throat just as the song reached a crescendo. James noticed a subtle change in his outfit: there was a little flag flying on his cap made of toothpick and paper, the kind you’d stick into a sandwich. It was pink, purple and blue.

“I wanted to explain something,” Francis said, “because there’s been a misunderstanding and I’m told I was being a prick.”

This was James’ cue to bring up the AA joke, admit that he was—that he’d _been—_ a prick, too, but he could only stare at the bi flag. Why would Francis wear it? Didn’t he know what it _meant_? James peered at Blanky: there was an ally pin on his lapel. Surely he would’ve warned Francis about the flag’s _implications_. His own wife was bi. _Blanky_ of all people certainly knew the colours and would have warned Francis not to convey something he didn’t mean.

“Uh-huh?” James managed to blurt out.

Did Francis. Did he. Did he mean it?

“I think you look stunning,” Francis said, matter-of-fact. James could’ve sworn the lights dimmed and the music stopped; it was also possible he had a minor heart attack. He clutched his chest by reflex, made a choked-off sound; his stomach dropped. Francis went on, as if he didn’t notice James’ reaction. “I just don’t think it’s in good taste to outdress LGBTQIA people at their own parade as a straight male, so that’s why I took issue with it.”

James was nearly doubled over. He looked up at Francis. He _stared_.

“ _You_ think I’m _straight_?” he croaked.

“I...assumed?”

James looked at Blanky desperately. Was he hearing this too? Hearing this _rubbish_? James couldn’t have been more _out_ if he had a cock up his arse at that very moment. All his fashion choices, all his _life choices—_

“I thought you were just...flamboyant,” Francis said. “Perhaps metrosexual.”

James was still staring at Blanky. He couldn’t look at Francis. He’d die. Francis flying the bi colours and telling him he was some straight dude playing dress-up for an eccentric, offensive joke—were they in the upside-down? Had the world reversed?

“I told him that if he’s gonna make assumptions about your orientation, he should just ask you,” Blanky said. “Before he polices your costume choices and all that.”

“The theme was navy,” Francis said, defeated, giving Blanky a sharp glance.

“Nothing’s more _navy_ than pirates crashing your party.”

James needed another glass of wine. Preferably injected directly into his bloodstream. He was dizzy. He was going to faint. Swoon into Francis’ arms—oh, _Christ_.

“If you must know,” he said, voice wavering, “I identify as homoromantic bisexual.”

“It’s not my place to know,” Francis rebutted instantly. “I don’t want to force a coming out. There’s just been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, some misunderstanding, all right.” James combed his fingers through his hair; the pearls jingled. He noticed Francis watching. Francis was staring at him an awful lot. Always had been. As if he couldn’t look away. James had written it off as glaring. Now, he wasn’t _convinced_.

He had to remind himself that just because Francis was attracted to men, or masculinity, didn’t mean Francis was attracted to him. But that wasn’t it: that would’ve been easy to accept. No: it was that the sole thing holding James back all this time was his firm belief that any approach would be refused. If he didn’t think his attempts would be doomed to failure, if he didn’t feel like a creep just for _hoping_ , he would’ve done _everything_ differently. Initiate the charm offensive. He knew how to talk to people, how to tease and seduce, how to have a fun night, how to make sure his partner enjoyed themselves, how to spoil them rotten, how to fall in love before saying goodbye, how to create cherished memories.

He sucked at relationships.

But he knew how to fascinate.

He would’ve fascinated Francis’ pants off day _one_ if he knew—

On the other hand. Wouldn’t a man like Francis be wasted on a happy shag?

“Now that that’s settled,” Blanky announced, and followed it up with a meaningful silence. Neither Francis nor James did or said anything. They stood there awkwardly, holding onto their glasses and maybe even blushing—perhaps it was just the heating. God, it was humiliating. The eager joy rising in James’ chest was suppressed by an acute sense of embarrassment as he recounted their shared history. It was like his life flashing before his eyes as he slipped on ice: falling and falling endlessly, haunted by opportunities missed, the life he could’ve had, perhaps. Whittier was right: “for of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been”—the quote played in his mind on repeat, accusing him.

He hardly noticed Blanky offering his hand. “Will you do me the honour of a dance, James?” he said, exasperated, and gave a pointed look to Francis. Francis was befuddled: he blinked at them as if it had never even occurred to him that a dance was an option, that it was something people did. James wanted to dance with him—wanted it more than anything—but he wouldn’t refuse Blanky, even though he was clearly just making a point. He placed his hand in Blanky’s gracefully, let himself be led away. Couldn’t resist glancing back at Francis, but Francis was buried in his beer.

“Do you think he likes me?” James whispered.

“No, I’ve had enough of high school drama,” Blanky said as they took their place on the dance floor. “We won’t talk boys. If you wanna know if he fancies you, you’ll have to fucking ask him, James.”

“That’s not what I meant,” James lied as a song began to play. It sounded like an instrumental cover of _Yellow Submarine_. Whoever was responsible for the playlist (Hodgson? He believed it was Hodgson) would have to be sent an email congratulating them for keeping it on theme. Blanky pulled him into a joyful twirl. “I thought he actively _disliked_ me. As a co-worker.”

“You can be kind of an arse,” Blanky said with an impish grin. “Just talk to him, eh?”

James bit his lips and searched for Francis with his gaze. He was still lingering on the edge of the dance floor, still watching; but just as they locked gazes, he was approached by Sir John in an all-white Captain’s uniform. James dragged his attention away and focused on Blanky.

“Kids all right?”

Blanky’s face lit up instantly. “Scotty’s just over there dancing with Jopson.”

“Scotty?” James asked back, going through the list of Blanky’s numerous children in his head—he couldn’t recall a Scotty.

“Yeah, he chose it himself. He’s my eldest, big fan of Star Trek.”

James located a gangly ginger he knew by another name. “Scotty,” he repeated. “Good choice. Fitting.”

“Studying to be an engineer and everything.”

“Of a starship?”

Blanky squinted slyly. “Wouldn't put it past him.”

James glanced at Francis’ direction again to ask Blanky if he'd be a captain or a science officer, but Francis was gone. A confused Sir John remained, sipping on champagne.

⚓

James pulled his stole tighter around his shoulders as he headed out to the deck, trailed by Blanky. The June wind blowing from the river had a glacial bite, but it was welcome after the heat of the dance deck. He searched for Francis, eyes skipping over groups of chipper people. Knowing Francis, he’d be alone somewhere, separated from the happy chatter. As expected, he was leaning on the bow railing like a lonely Rose from _Titanic,_ sipping on his beer _._ James couldn’t help but smile as he approached him, striding across the deck gracefully, his dress flaring out with the desired dramatic effect.

_You’ll have to fucking ask him._

This wasn’t the right moment, but he still searched Francis’ gaze for an answer to a question not yet uttered. Francis smiled back, but James knew his smiles. This was the bitter one.

“Sir John said fuck you to my budget,” Francis announced.

“His exact wording, I presume?” James reached him but couldn’t quite find his place: should he step up, be Francis’ Jack? Stay at a respectful distance? He ended up leaning on the railing with over-exaggerated ease.

“Hessaid,” Francis slurred, “he said he’s doing the rollercoaster like it wha’ good news.”

“He can’t just decide that without us,” James said as he casually extended a leg, stretching leisurely, his smooth shin peeking out of the slit. “There’ll be a vote, and I can promise—”

“Hold up,” Blanky said. “Francis. Are you _tipsy_?”

Francis got a firmer grip on the railing as he pulled himself up to his full height from his grumpy slump. He didn’t sway, but there was something wrong with the way he squinted.

“Oh,” James said. “You’ve been under the influence this _entire time_ , huh?”

“No,” Francis insisted. He over-enunciated the word. “It’s Guinness Zero. I got lightheaded from all the...people.”

“They don’t make non-alcoholic stouts,” Blanky said, matter-of-fact. Reached for the pint. Francis pulled it to his chest by reflex, then gave it over with a reluctant frown.

“It’ll taste just like Guinness, that’s the point.”

Blanky held it up to the string lights glinting above them and nodded to himself. “Guinness Zero is not a stout, it should have a ruby colour. This ain’t it. It’s the real deal.” 

Francis glanced at James beseechingly. He pulled his leg back, and asked, gentle, “Are you feeling dizzy?”

“I’m fine,” he said, then squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m going to murder Mr. Hickey.”

“You should. He’s not lying, Thomas. I was with him; Mr. Hickey told him—”

Francis pushed himself away from the railing and took a menacing step towards a group of smokers on the deck. Hickey was among them, sharing a vapestick with Tozer, Gibson’s Nelson coat thrown over his shoulders, deep in chatter. Blanky caught Francis’ arm, and yanked him back.

“Do _not_ murder Mr. Hickey,” he hissed. “Not in front of everybody!”

“Nah, he’s dead,” Francis said, trying to twist free.

“Dead men tell no tales,” James supplied, measuring Hickey as if he was trying to guess his coffin size.

“Listen to me,” Blanky pleaded. “Don’t cause a scene. Sober Francis wouldn’t want it.”

“He’s not here, is he?” Francis looked at James; looked him over. “Will you help me bury the body?”

James grinned. “You can count on it.”

That seemed to be all the encouragement Francis needed; he made another attempt at wriggling free of Blanky’s hold. Blanky let go for a moment to adjust his grip.

That was when Francis pushed him.

He clearly hadn’t anticipated the force of it; nor did James. One second, he watched Blanky’s back hit the railing. The next, Blanky was falling. There must’ve been a moment when he tumbled over it, but it happened too quick.

There was no time to think. James jumped after him before he’d made the conscious decision to do so. He didn’t drop his bag or shrug off his stole; he didn’t cry for help. He hit the water in full drag, deadly silent.

Sound rushed back with the water.

There was an awful lot of _splash_.

Blanky couldn’t swim: the weight of his prosthetic was pulling him down. The river ran fast, its waves coming from every direction, pulling and tugging at James with a brutality he didn’t anticipate, wasn’t prepared for, but figuring out how to swim in the bloody Thames could wait—first, he had to make sure that Blanky was breathing. He grabbed his hair and forced his head above water as they were carried off in a tumble.

There was a shout. _Men in the water_ , perhaps. The rush of the river washed the sound out. James struggled to keep himself above the surface; he lost sight of the yacht, couldn’t see the dark shore—all was a blur, his only certainty that Blanky had to be safe.

“Grab my shoulder!” James yelled. Swallowed water. Hauled Blanky closer; he was swearing until he was hit with a splash, too. James thought he spotted the yacht again in the darkness, but the Thames twisted his gaze away, pushed him away. There was light, then: sharp light and shouts again.

His back hit the wooden column of a pier. It was just a moment; the water pulled him back, but someone reached for him. Grabbed his hand. It was slippery with water. He slid back into the river and Blanky nearly sank.

Something hit the water. A rope from the pier. He grasped the line, wound it around his forearm. Shouted, “Help Thomas!”

Two arms, reaching for them. A fisherman. He clutched Blanky’s soaked coat and James helped push him up, the rope biting into his arm.

“Climb, you idiot!” Blanky coughed.

The light shone on them. James looked up, half-blind. The _Barretto Junior_ floated some distance away, its reflector aimed at them. Francis stood by the lamp. James recognised his silhouette. Found the strength to pull himself up to the pier.

⚓

“Sod _right off_ , old man,” Blanky said, and enveloped Francis and Scotty into a bearhug. Francis buried his face into his neck. His shoulders were shaking. His sobs were muffled by Blanky’s laughter and Scotty's urgent questions.

James exchanged a last round of pleasantries with the God-sent fisherman, assured everybody an ambulance wouldn’t be needed and headed to the restroom amidst a worried onslaught of Carnival-goers.

“Just let me throw up in peace,” he said, laughing. “The Thames tastes just as disgusting as one would think.” He shook some drops out of his hair. “What a night, huh? Excuse me—sorry—I’ll tell you everything, I _really_ need to change. Be back in a sec—no, don’t stop the music, don’t you dare—that’s all right, this night is not over, the party’s just begun!”

He could finally drop his smile as the loo’s door closed.

He didn’t feel like fucking smiling.

He was soaked through and shivering, and he smelled like raw sewage and rotting fish. He’d lost his bag and his phone with it. Lost a shoe as well. His splendid dress was ruined for good; his hair, too. He spat into a basin and peeled off his opera gloves. That was the best he could do: there was nothing to change into. The _Barretto Junior_ didn’t have a spare robe, much less a toothbrush or shampoo.

He just wanted to go home.

The trip to Camden would be short but humiliating.

“Oh, crap,” he said.

He’d lost his keys.

Great.

His neighbour had a spare pair for dogsitting. He’d just have to wake her up past midnight in a dripping dress and ask for her assistance. He had a wild story to tell, didn’t he?

He’d just rather not tell it.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

He counted to three and said, with some effort not to sound too gruff, “Come in.” His teeth were chattering. 

He expected the anxious crowd to flock in, but they were pushed back by Francis, who closed the door in their face, just as Irving was asking, “Should we call a cab?”

“I’ve called an Uber,” Francis said. His eyes were puffy and red. He was armed with a roll of paper towels.

“My card’s in a fish bank,” James murmured, turning to the basin. If he could choose an optimal scenario for Francis to see him after some light flirtation, it wouldn’t be in a narrow men’s room while he looked like a wet cat, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He bent over to wring out some water from his hair. He was unsteady on his feet but refused to kick off his one remaining shoe.

Francis nudged his arm with the paper towels. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m paying,” he said softly.

James tore off a sheet and applied it to his hair. Looked into the mirror. Sighed. “Bollocks.”

“I’m so sorry.”

James waved it away.

“I should have jumped,” Francis insisted. “I should’ve been the one. I didn’t even have time to blink and you were _both_ in the water, thanks to my stupidity.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, it was an accident.” James tore off another sheet. “If you didn’t get the light…I don’t know. That was fast thinking on your part. So thank you.”

Francis watched him trying to dry his hair while water kept dripping off him everywhere. “Dab it.”

“I _am_ dabbing.”

“No—here.” He cupped James’ face; thanks to the remaining pair of heels, he had to reach up a bit. His thumb rested on James’ neck, over a vein, as if he was checking his heartbeat: _alive; here._ He patted down his hair, fast and efficient, eyes unbearably gentle.

“Thanks,” James whispered.

Francis shook his head, breaking the spell. “Quit thanking me, it was my fault in the first place.”

“It was Hickey’s.” James squinted at him. “Still down to murder him?”

Francis gave him a crooked smile, then unceremoniously dropped the sogged heap of paper towels into the basin. “These are useless,” he announced. “You should really get out of those wet clothes, you’ll catch a cold.”

“I’ve nothing to change into.”

Francis rolled his eyes and shrugged off his coat; held it out as if he couldn’t believe James didn’t know he was going to offer it.

“I’ll ruin it,” James said.

“Who the hell cares?”

“You should,” James pressed on, mostly just to piss him off. Francis looked away, missing the smile playing on James’ lips. Kept his gaze pointedly on the ceiling. The coat hung between them like a dressing room’s curtain.

James used to fantasise about stripping for Francis: slow and seductive, or with the urgency of passion. This was nothing like that. He was cold. He still smelled. All he wanted was a shower and a nap. To be fair, he wouldn’t have minded if Francis joined him for a bath and cuddle. All he got was this instead: an awkward shuffle to peel off his ruined evening gown in the loo—although it was undeniably hilarious, and an air of intimacy remained. It was gone the moment his lace underwear landed on the ground with an undignified _sqluench_.

Francis opened his mouth, then closed it. Licked his lips. Kept his eyes trained on the lights.

James discovered he was no longer tucked. It wasn’t a surprise. He took the coat from Francis’ hands. Wanted to make a joke about being wet, but it didn’t feel appropriate. He was halfway through buttoning up the coat when Francis’ phone buzzed.

“It’ll be the Uber,” Francis said, and shot him a quick glance. “What’s your shoe size?”

“I can go home barefoot, it’s okay—Francis, for goodness’ sake.”

Francis was pulling off his wellingtons.

“They’re a size too big,” he said. “They should fit. Just take out the newspaper.” He nudged them towards him like a peace offering. Looked him over again. There was something in the way his gaze idled. If James wasn’t fed up, soaked through and exhausted—

“My coat looks better on you,” Francis noted.

James was acutely aware that he was naked under it. Completely. “Ta,” he managed.

“Shame about the dress.”

“Yeah, maybe—I don’t know, I’ll ah, ask Glória. She’s my mum.”

Francis’ face softened. He looked fond; there was nothing else that expression could’ve been. His phone buzzed again, and he turned away to deal with it.

⚓

The chocomint bath bomb dissolved in the bubbling water with an explosion of green fizz and glitter. James had already showered twice; he needed a treat now. He sank into the tub, conditioner setting, and let out a long sigh. It was around two a.m. Nothing better than a luxurious bath at dawn.

Well. Almost nothing.

He reached for the dildo waiting for him in the basin. Actively avoided looking at the dress dropped to the floor in a defeated heap. He had no energy left to deal with that. Getting the pearls out of his hair had taken _forever_. But there was always time for some special self-care.

It was his shortest dildo in the collection, a girthy fellow with beautifully realistic, velvet-soft silicone, firm and waiting. He sank down on it slowly, already stretched, enjoying the gradual descent and letting his mind wander back to Francis, wander back to the loo, to the moment his dress hit the floor. In the fantasy, he was clean: there was nothing but the smell of chocolate and mint on his glittering skin. Francis hauled him up, set him atop the basin’s counter. James spread his legs, eager, back sliding down the steamy mirror. His throat felt tight and raw.

Francis would be wearing his sexy little hat, the hat with the bi flag, and the coat that hung in the hallway now; those, and nothing else. Francis naked: he tried to picture it, the delicious thickness of his body, his hard cock standing proudly, just like the dildo he had, exactly like that, pushing deep, ever deeper.

He imagined Francis’ hand: his warm hand, cupping his face again. Its tender touch. A thumb rubbing his throat as he panted for air. The way Francis looked at him, tender, approving. The tilt of his head: _I’m here. I’m listening._

What was James to say? What was he to say to make it real?

He croaked out Francis’ name, putting his forehead to Francis’. They breathed together. There was music in the air. _Beyond the Sea_ , perhaps.

⚓

Sunday was a mess. It was mostly due to the fact that he tried to sort out insurance and get a new phone, keys and credit card on a _Sunday_. He took the dress and the coat to a dry cleaner and paid cash for his lunch for the first time in forever. He felt rather adrift, as if a part of him was still being carried by the current. He vaguely recalled having a nightmare.

There was no time to linger on that. Monday at the office would be a challenge that required his presence of mind. They’d have to go through Rainbow Carnival, reduced to numbers and statistics, to see if it was actually worth it. He’d get something for Blanky, coffee or chocolate, because he supposed he was having a hard time recovering, too. He’d need to figure out what to do about Hickey’s little stunt: HR would definitely have to be alerted, depending on whether Francis was comfortable sharing his story.

Francis, yes: his plans and concerns orbited around him. They’d meet again. Such an ordinary event—James reckoned he could guess the colour of the tie he’d choose for a Monday meeting (salmon), the takeout he’d order (he usually had Thai on Mondays, probably a happy hour deal or something), the exact way he’d sit at his desk. James could see him balancing his fountain pen as he glared at his screen in distaste. But then: their eyes would meet. Francis would make a face and indicate his laptop, _can you believe this load of rubbish?_ James would smile, and after work, he’d say, _let’s go to that Thai place you like. Show me how you live your life. Let me be a part of it. A small part. That’s okay_.

Something along those lines, anyway.

⚓

He put on his lucky pants. His luckiest pants were all jockstraps, but these ones were work-appropriate, at least in the silhouette. Nobody would have to know they had a neon green cheetah print. They were tasteless and tacky, a gag gift with an array of happy memories attached to them: hookups grinning as soon as they saw them, smiles kissed from lips. He hoped they would elicit a similar reaction from Francis: not like he had much hope of getting quite that far, if anywhere, but that was the point of lucky pants. He could shoot for the stars in them.

Putting them on took a good three minutes.

He’d slept for nine hours straight—had been so knackered he’d headed to bed at ten—but he was still exhausted. Weak. His coordination skills were nill. He spilt Neptune’s brekky and nearly dropped his own tea. He could’ve sworn his mug wasn’t usually _this_ heavy. He geared up for his morning jog. Putting on the tracksuit made him sweat. He called for Neptune: his voice was decidedly nasal, and even his ears felt clogged, his skull stuffed with cotton.

So. Maybe he had a bit of a cold.

That made sense, he supposed. It wasn’t going to stop him. Today was a big day.

A morning mist was still idling over Regent’s, veiling the dewy grass and the lake. He’d hardly reached the bandstand and he was already breathless. Mostly because it hurt to breathe. The park was spinning around him as Neptune barked impatiently, ready to go on.

“Sorry, mate,” James wheezed, putting the leash back on him.

He shuffled home in shame.

It was okay. Nobody expected him to exercise in the office. He’d just sit in his chair, chug Lemsip and look charming in a blankie.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked like death warmed up.

Everybody would be able to tell he was ill. They wouldn’t even let him in. McDonald would forcibly remove him if necessary. That was the curse of an open office: anybody with the mildest case of flu was treated like a leper—rightly so, because the bacteria would spread in a matter of minutes. If the slightest tremor of a butterfly’s wing could cause hurricanes, his sneeze definitely had the power to bring down Erebus Voyages with him. No one would be safe, least of all Francis in his neighbouring vicinity.

He’d have to do the honourable thing and stay put until he was cured.

He sank down to the floor.

Yes, staying home was the right call. He didn’t have to like it, though.

⚓

He woke with a start as Neptune jumped off the sofa and scrambled to the door, wagging his tail on the go. There was a persistent gloom, the shadows long, but the sun was still out. James didn’t know what time it was, what century. The living room looked foreign, even though he was used to seeing it from this perspective, collapsed on the sofa with a quilt. He felt like he was in someone else’s house, or in a museum: but it was his blue willow mug on the coffee table—all six of his mugs—he’d spent the day drinking tea and medicine—now he remembered it: he was sick.

That explained all the unwashed mugs. He wouldn’t let his standards slip like this on a normal day.

The buzzer sounded. That must’ve been what had woken him up: someone at the door, ringing again.

“Coming!” he yelled. It sounded like a broken whisper. He got to his feet, stared at the fuzzy black socks in a moment of confusion (oh, yeah: he’d been cold) and waddled to the hallway in his lucky pants and an old shirt he didn’t mind rolling around in, a relic from a Cigarettes After Sex concert. He opened the door and made a futile attempt to make himself presentable by brushing his hair back. His fingers caught on a knot. Perfect.

Francis stared at him.

He stared at Francis.

“Hello,” Francis said.

“Hello,” he said back.

Francis was in a grey plaid suit. Salmon tie. Straight from work, but in a rush: a lock of his fine hair fell over his forehead. He was holding a paper bag: Neptune was very interested in that. Francis petted him with a confused, dazed expression.

“Didn’t mean to barge in,” he explained, “but I couldn’t call.”

“No, it’s okay, come on in—I have an open house policy—couldn’t get the phone issue fixed—Neptune, heel.”

He shuffled back from the door, shoulders pulled up, as if making himself smaller could hide the fact that he was in his underwear. Francis entered the flat and toed off his derby shoes. It was absurd. It was _his_ hallway, and Francis was there, knocking over _his_ umbrella stand, apologising while he got hold of _his_ shoe cabinet to steady himself.

“Tea?” James asked. He was convinced that tea could solve everything.

“No, thanks, I’m just—”

“You sure?”

“Maybe a cuppa. Do you have—?”

“I have everything.”

James fled to the kitchen. He didn’t know why he felt so weird. Embarrassed, yes, but excited as well; nearly giddy; it felt like he was trying to behave himself, but he could snap at any moment and—what? Laugh? Cry? Confess his crush? He hadn’t been this way since his high school days.

He made sure nothing in his behaviour betrayed nervousness: he put the kettle on like it was an ordinary day and he didn’t have Francis Crozier standing at the kitchen’s threshold, with Neptune jumping around him and—cor, in his shirtsleeves. He’d pulled off his jacket and laid it over his arm. _Nice arms_ , James’ groggy mind supplied. _Jolly nice._

“How are you?” Francis asked casually, gaze darting around the antique kitchen. James leant on the mahogany counter.

“Good, good,” he said by reflex, then added, “Well, I’m sick.”

“I was worried—I knew it was serious, the email you sent to us had a typo.” Francis smiled, almost _shy_ , as if he didn’t know if his little joke would offend, or worse, bore.

James replied with a quivery grin. “I’m clearly dying. Please, pick a tea.”

“Right,” Francis said, and crossed the threshold, finally. James opened the drawer for him and stepped back, at arm’s length. Francis closed the distance by offering the paper bag. “For you.”

“Me?” James asked stupidly and took it. It had a cup of soup, still hot.

“Tom Kha Gai,” Francis said. “Chicken soup with coconut. I thought—because you’ve got a cold.”

“Smells delicious,” James noted, staring into the paperbag as it held all the gold in the world. Francis had even gotten him chopsticks and a napkin.

“You have...quite the collection.”

“Yeah, I travel a lot. Practically lived in India for a while—toured the Middle East, Greece, Malta, Singapore and China—”

“Birdshit Island,” Francis supplied.

“Yes, also...that.” He cleared his throat. Of course. Francis had heard about his life quite enough. “Anyway. I brought back tea.”

Francis handed him a pack of loose leaf Assam.

“Good choice,” James said. “A classic. Do you travel?”

“James,” Francis said gently. “We work for a travel agency.” 

“Yeah, just—Right. Yeah.”

A pause followed. Francis looked around again while James brewed the tea, mildly cursing himself. How difficult could it be to make conversation? He’d never had a problem before.

“Nice flat,” Francis said. “Very...fancy.”

“I could never afford it,” James supplied. “Used to be my uncle’s. I was at boarding school when they lived here. And when he—passed away, I was living with three blokes in a basement, so the family thought I should have it. They always took care of me. Always.” He cleared his throat again. “Money is not something you have. Have you noticed that? It’s never rags to riches, it’s rags to riches and back again. It comes and goes and you just try to survive.”

There was a pause again. He wanted to apologise for babbling, blame it on the cold medicine, but Francis took the mug from his hand, and their fingers brushed. He couldn’t say anything after that. It felt—deliberate.

“Your family must be relieved that you have such a nice place to live,” Francis said. “You deserve it.”

James couldn’t possibly say anything to that. “Ta” was all he managed. He avoided Francis’ gaze and busied himself with the soup.

“Very spacious,” Francis went on after another brief pause. “Do you live here alone?” 

James looked up from the Tom Kha Gai, chopsticks frozen mid-air. “I’m single, yes.”

⚓

They were sitting on the sofa, because James had never heard of a dining table. Francis had finished his tea long ago, but James was taking his time with the soup, hoping to prolong Francis’ visit. The last bite was inevitably reached. He moaned around it, miserably.

“Best soup I’ve ever had,” he said. “And I have _had_ some soups.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Francis commented. He looked genuinely chuffed: proud that he’d done something to please James.

James wanted to tell him how much it meant. He had an open house policy, yes, but the vast flat was empty on sick days. He wouldn’t bother his friends with his illness, just curl up in his cave and hibernate until he was okay and ready to party. Who knew he even wanted this: to be cared for. He prided himself with self-reliance. The last person to nurse him was his aunt when he was around _twelve_.

Francis took the empty paper cup from him and put it on a tray; he started stocking the dirty mugs on it, too.

“You don’t have to,” James croaked, knowing full well that that was the point: that Francis _chose_ this. “I’m not usually this messy.”

“I’ve seen your desk,” Francis said. “I know.”

Something clenched in James’ chest. He pulled up his legs, as if to protect his poor thudding heart. But there was no need for it: he was safe. Francis lifted the tray as it was the most natural thing, whistled for Neptune and headed to the kitchen. It was like he’d always been here. Like he’d never leave.

James allowed himself a moment to stay, pretend there was no urgency following Francis, because they had infinite time together. Just as much as they needed. He smiled to himself and got up, followed Francis to the kitchen. He had the privilege to witness firsthand Francis opening the dishwasher and finding a dildo there.

“Shit,” James hissed, and jumped to grab it. Francis watched him snatch it with shocked amusement. “As I _said_ ,” James told him, “I live alone.”

That made Francis snort. Snorting was good. James didn’t know what to do with the damned dildo: he put it on the top of the fridge.

“Hope you had your cigarette after it,” Francis noted with a friendly nosecrunch. It was so cute it made James zone out.

“I don’t smoke,” he replied on autopilot.

Francis pointed a mug at him. “Your shirt.”

James looked down at himself. “Oh. Haha. Yes.” A terrible realisation hit. He glanced at Francis. “You know it’s a band, yeah? Cigarettes After Sex.”

Francis stared at him blankly.

“Oh God, you _don’t—_? Alexa! Alexa, play—” He suddenly remembered all of the lyrics, and waved the command away. “Turn off. Nevermind. You’ll have to check it out, though. What, ugh. What do you listen to?”

“You’ll laugh,” Francis said. He looked embarrassed. _He_ , after everything. Loaded the dishwasher as if his life depended on it.

“No, tell me. I won’t laugh.”

Francis grit his teeth. “I really like folk and classic rock.”

James blinked. “Yeah? Who doesn’t?”

“I just couldn’t be more of a boomer,” Francis complained, closing the machine. “I don’t know all these millennial bands.”

“Francis, I’m over forty.” 

Francis dismissed it with a gesture. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Not if this cold kills me,” James deadpanned.

Francis huffed and adjusted his cuffs. James wished he wouldn’t do that. He was still in his underwear, after all. The consequences could be dire and _visible_.

Francis wet his lips, seriously endangering James’ dignity. “We’ll have to make sure you don’t perish, then.” His confidence seemed to waver as he met James’ gaze. He was sure he was staring. He couldn’t help it. “Shall I come back tomorrow? I could bring more soup.”

James smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

Francis nodded curtly, as if he’d just sealed a million-pound deal, and headed for the hallway. James trailed behind him, trying not to grin. He watched Francis put on his shoes. “I hope you didn’t catch anything,” he said. What he meant to say was, _I’m so happy you dropped by I could cry,_ but this should suffice. 

Francis shrugged on his jacket. James felt weak, like he could swoon any minute. It had nothing to do with his cold. 

“I have the strongest immune system in the company,” Francis said. “Remember the fishing trip?”

James had tried his best to forget that particular team building exercise and the wave of food poisoning.

They didn’t even catch any fish.

Maybe because they went to the bleeding Arctic.

The tinned food took them out one by one. They had to start rationing the toilet paper. Hickey took the company car to go get wet wipes and just never came back. Francis was the last man standing.

“Point taken,” he muttered.

Francis was wearing that adorably smug expression again, like he was daring the world to tell him off. They were standing by the door; it was time to go.

“Well,” Francis said. Became very interested in the floor. James agreed that it was fascinating. 

Maybe a handshake? The last time they shook hands was when they were introduced. A pat on the shoulder? A slap on the back? A chummy hug...?

If James wasn’t sick, he would’ve kissed him. Would’ve just went for it. Lock lips briefly, because they had it coming, and he was grateful, and he liked Francis, and Francis was staring at his lips.

“See ya,” James said.

Francis nodded, almost relieved. James opened the door and let Francis walk out of his life for the night. Slumped against it bodily and let out a grunt. There was a thud from the other side. He listened, still holding the knob. There was silence, then the sound of reluctant steps. James bit his lips and pulled back.

_Tomorrow, perhaps._

⚓

The wait was delicious torment. From the moment he woke, he waited, perfectly aware that Francis would only come in the evening. Time dragged. His sluggish weakness was an added annoyance; it seemed to slow down everything. The simple act of making the bed, having tea or playing _Don’t Starve Together_ on the Xbox stretched into a blurry nothingness.

When the hour of Francis’ arrival drew near, he shaved carefully for what felt like an eternity and tied his hair back into a half bun. He was contemplating putting on his usual silk pyjamas, but felt like it’d make yesterday’s outfit look more awkward in hindsight. He went for an old pair of plaid bottoms and another band shirt: Led Zeppelin this time, to show Francis he really wasn’t alone in liking classic rock.

Francis was late.

Later than yesterday.

James felt like following Neptune’s example, who’d claw at the door and whine when left alone. He perked up like a puppy when the buzzer finally sounded and raced Neptune to the door. His dignity was evidently on sick leave, too. 

Francis’ soft smile was all the reward he needed for his patience. He looked like a cuddly—if a tad dejected—teddy bear in his smart brown suit, and some effort seemed to have gone into his hair, which was neatly parted, the sideburns clipped.

“Soup delivery, at your service,” he said.

“What are we having?” James asked as he let him in, trying to peek into the bag. It was a proper canvas bag this time.

“Irish chicken soup.”

“Mmm, what makes it Irish?”

“The fact that I made it,” Francis announced with no small amount of pride, then added, a beat later, “It has potatoes in it, too. My sister’s recipe.”

James frowned. “You have a sister?”

Francis stepped out of his shoes in silence, clearly enjoying the suspense, and met James’ gaze only to say, “I have several sisters.”

“How many?”

Francis made his way to the kitchen without a reply.

“Francis?” James called after him. “How many sisters in total?”

“How are you feeling?” Francis asked, completely ignoring his question.

“Find me buried under a mountain of Kleenex.” James followed him, trailed by Neptune. They both jumped when Francis slammed an onion on the counter with gusto. It was the biggest onion James had ever seen.

“Nothing this won’t cure.”

“Thanks, I’m taking my meds.”

“But you’re evidently not drinking onion tea, or you wouldn’t still be sick.” Francis shot a judgemental glance to the tea drawer. “All _that_ , and no onion tea whatsoever.” He shook his head ruefully.

James couldn’t help but simper. He loved when Francis was being a cheeky bastard. He loved him.

⚓

The tea was just as disgusting as one could reasonably expect it to be. The soup, however, was savoury and spicy, and Francis brought enough for the both of them. James relished every second of sharing a meal with him, made all the more sweet by their easy banter. He kept stealing glances of Francis from the corner of his eyes, observing him in a way that wouldn’t make Francis feel _watched_ , and wondering, _Is this how you are when nobody sees you? At ease, in your home?_

Francis reached for his empty bowl, their fingers brushed and realisation hit: _This is not how you are off work; this is how you are with me. Taking care of me. Smiling._

“Who knew you were such a good cook,” he said, turning on the sofa so he could watch Francis go to the kitchen without disturbing Neptune resting in his lap.

“One of my best-kept secrets,” Francis said easily. “A walking enigma, me.”

“When was the last time you cooked for somebody?”

Francis stepped out of James’ field of vision. James heard him busy himself with the dishwasher.

“A while,” Francis replied finally, washing his hands.

“I’ll have to return the favour when I recover,” James offered. He didn’t know if it was right to plan for the future and awaited Francis’ reply with his breath baited. It wouldn’t be the biscuits he took to the office for everybody: Francis had to know he was suggesting a dinner date.

Francis returned, shaking water off his hands.

“Oh,” James said. “Sorry, the tea towels are in the laundry—use a towel in the bathroom, the blue one.”

The spell was broken. Francis nodded, looking lost in thought. It took him three tries to turn on the bathroom lights.

James chewed on the inside of his mouth. He heard Francis scoff, inexplicably. Stroked Neptune’s ears to distract himself from anxious thoughts. It felt like he and Francis were saying the same thing, but spoken in different languages. There was something about Francis he didn’t understand yet.

Francis emerged from the bathroom. He looked haunted but oddly amused. With round eyes and a pale face, he pointed behind him, and said in a jesting tone, “Quite the art gallery. Didn’t know you were a fan of Sophia’s photographs.”

James closed his eyes.

 _Bingo_.

“She’s very talented,” he said, matching Francis’ easy tone.

“She is, yes.” Francis sat down on the leather armchair facing the sofa. His movements changed. He lowered himself into his seat as if he was in pain.

“I don’t know her well,” James chatted, mindful of the way Francis was gripping the armrest. “I’m friendly with Eleanor, though—the photos were her gift; she knows my brother Will is a bit of a collector. I had to keep the Macquarie Harbour prints for myself, I just loved that place. Went to visit the Franklins there one summer. Sophia was my guide to the lighthouse. I like her photo of it—that lady looking out at the sea, waiting; there’s just something terribly romantic—” He trailed off.

“She regretted taking it,” Francis said. Tapped on the armrest. “Sentimental, she said. Of course, it’s her most well-known photo now.”

“Our regrets define us.”

Francis’ fingers stilled. “Do you know what happened?” he asked with some effort.

James wagered to meet his gaze. “Never heard your side of it.”

He kept calmly stroking Neptune while he waited for Francis’ reply. A short nod was all at first, then a taut smile. It softened the more Francis looked at him. “How much do you know?” Francis said, almost gently.

“You were engaged. No wedding.”

“We weren’t engaged,” Francis said, leaning back in his chair. He cocked his head to the side. “She said no,” he announced, almost proud. What else could one be, faced with the enormity of such pain?

“I’m sorry,” James said, making sure his voice was devoid of pity. Francis couldn’t stand pity.

“Don’t be,” Francis said, surprising himself, if the way he blinked was any indication. “We’d been living together for three years. Dating for a bit longer. It seemed appropriate. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. It was our anniversary and I took her—” He inhaled deeply. “I took her to the place where we went on our first date. Fancy restaurant. Roses. Champagne. She must’ve suspected something even before I went down on one knee. Even before the musicians came out.”

“There were musicians,” James repeated blankly.

Francis laughed to himself bitterly. “There was a _flashmob_.”

“My God.”

“As expected, as I _should have_ expected, she got overwhelmed. No. She freaked out. She fled the scene in tears. Didn’t even take her clutch. I embarrassed her. How do you cope with that? I wanted to make the most important person in my life happy and we both ended up hurting. ”

“How did _you_ cope?” James asked softly, knowing the answer even before Francis said it.

“I started drinking. Always had a problem with alcohol. It got worse. Much worse. We didn’t—I couldn’t let go. I followed her to Australia. I wasn’t ready to just break up. I made myself believe we should just take things slowly and all would be fine. I started working for Terra Nova, we moved in together again, now in Hobart, we even went to counseling, and everything went so well I just asked her again.”

“Why?” James blurted.

Francis stroked his chin, considering. “You know, that’s funny. I never asked myself that. Well. At the time, I told myself I was doing it for us. Obviously, she didn’t want it. I did. I think I just—” he frowned. “I always wanted to be married. Kids, white picket fence, never cared for that. I’m indifferent. But marriage—” He made a gesture. “You told me I was too ‘ride-or-die’ about my business loyalties. I wanted to bloody throttle you, because you were right. Loyalty means too much to me in a world that is entirely temporary.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting loyalty,” James assured him. “It’s only a problem when you demand it.”

He wished to close the distance between them, sitting on opposite ends of the room. The coffee table felt like an obstacle. He wanted to reach out and squeeze Francis’ hand in reassurance. Francis looked at him, and he knew that the intended gesture was felt: their souls linked for a moment.

“Yes,” Francis said. “It’s over now with her. I thought it never would be, and look at me.”

“Look at you,” James repeated, letting his pride show in his eyes. 

Francis cleared his throat and looked away, almost bashful. “I thought falling out of love would be an endless process. Then one day I woke up and I realised I no longer loved her. It feels unfair, that it’s the pain that lingers. That it’s still smarting.” He tapped his chest. “So. Now you know that I’m terrible at relationships.”

“I just know that you were strong enough to move on. Deal with your demons.”

Francis waved it away. He sniffed and got up from the chair. “Is there anything more I can do for you besides boring you with sob stories?”

“I will always listen to you, and that’s a threat,” James said. “No need to deflect. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you, but having emotions is normal.”

“You can put that lovely quote on my gravestone when I die of my bottled-up issues,” Francis deadpanned. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Francis _giggled_ , as if talking about all this had been mischief. James really wanted to hug him. He had a lapful of dog holding him back.

“You can take Neptune for a walk,” he suggested. “Glare at everybody who wants to pet him. Feel like a man.”

“Ha-ha,” Francis said, then something playful glinted in his eyes again. “Did you know that I have a cat?”

James held up his arms in defeat. “Francis, Master of Mysteries, I don’t know shit.”

“I have a cat. He’s an arsehole.”

“What’s his name?”

“Enough bonding for today. Neptune, c’mere.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” James mouthed, feeling his chest expand when Francis winked at him. He had a spring in his step as he guided Neptune to the hallway, grabbed his waste bags, coaxed a leash on him. James looked at the empty armchair, a silent witness to all that passed. He waited until the hallway door closed, then curled up in it.

⚓

“Do you reckon he’s asleep?” Francis whispered.

James’ eyes opened; he’d just closed them a moment ago. Francis was back, wearing the navy coat James had left for him in the hallway. The evenings were chilly; it must’ve been evening, but James’ sense of time was lost to his brief sleep. He groaned, miserable.

“Were you talking to my dog?” he asked.

“We’ve become good friends,” Francis said confidentially. True enough, Neptune was staring at him with awe, tail wagging away at lightspeed.

“Look at my boys getting along,” James mumbled, and blinked, trying to chase the enduring fatigue away. He felt more exhausted than when he’d dozed off, the sort of grogginess one felt in the bones, the muscles.

“Have you even taken a nap today?” Francis asked, somehow making it sound like a proper interrogation. He didn’t sit down or take off the coat: loomed over James with stern concern. James squirmed under the weight of it.

“I loathe naps. Waste of time.”

“A bedrest involves a bed and plenty of rest,” Francis pronounced his judgement. “Hit the sack.”

James groaned again, but he was too drowsy to argue. Got to his feet reluctantly, then just stood there, at a loss for what should happen next.

“I need a shower.”

“Shower or bath?”

James considered it. “A bath would be lovely.”

“Let’s draw you a bath.” Francis marched to the bathroom, determined as ever. James was not going to argue that he didn’t need help with that. It seemed to be an unstated understanding.

Francis didn’t even glance at Sophia’s photos, just plugged in the tub and opened the faucet, checking the temperature. James lingered at the threshold a bit, indulging in the sight of Francis sitting on the rim in his dashing suit. His maroon socks caught James’ attention: years of working together and he’d never seen Francis without his shoes until this week.

Neptune heard the sound of running water and ran in. He liked to keep James company when he was bathing. Francis gave him a cautious smile and scratched his chin. James took his cue to finally enter and rummaged the mirror cabinet for his toothbrush. It felt so inexplicably natural to do it in Francis’ presence, though his reflection showed he was a tad flushed.

“So you like bath bombs,” Francis observed. There was a pile of them neatly arranged in a glass container.

“How d’d y’ know?” James asked around the buzzing toothbrush.

“What do they do? Do they explode?”

“Y’ never—?” James shook his head. “Lemme demonsffrate. Pick un.”

“Any of them?” Francis very deliberately reached for a navy blue.

“Yup. Wai’ a bit then drop it in th’ watah.”

Francis squinted at the ball curiously. “There’s suspense involved, then.”

“Par’ of th’ baff-bomb exfferience.” He spat out the foam with no trace of grace. He was aware that he thrust out his arse as he leant forward. He was aware, too, that Francis was watching him do it. Attention never felt so delicious. “How’s work?” he asked to preserve the appearance of casual domesticity.

“All’s well. You needn’t worry.” Francis experimentally tossed the bath bomb in the air and caught it with a quick flick of his wrist. Neptune jumped up and barked in a delighted frenzy. He was clearly falling in love with Francis.

“So my absence isn’t felt is what you’re telling me,” James teased, and continued brushing. Remained bent over the basin just to observe Francis’ reaction.

Francis’ reaction was to address James’ arse as he replied, “I think I’m onto Hickey.”

It made James straighten up. “ _Now_ you’r’ tellin’ me?”

“Nothing concrete yet. The Guinness mishap wasn’t his only mischief, it seems. The catering service that supposedly delivered to Rainbow Parade doesn’t exist.”

“Holy crap. Wh’re did he ge’ th’ food then?”

Francis shrugged, as if his eyes weren’t shining with excitement, and added, “Goodsir is trying to figure it out. Apparently, he’s been meaning to bring down Hickey for a _while_.”

“Goodsah? Our ‘Arry?”

“You should’ve seen his face when reported the beer incident to HR, and what I dug up about the catering. Don’t let his philanthropy fool you, he’s an avenging angel.”

James let out a shocked laugh and managed to spit toothpaste on the mirror. He wiped his mouth, still chuckling. He would’ve been embarrassed if the mental image of a haloed Goodsir in a toga bringing on Armageddon wasn’t that damn hilarious. “ _Bloody_ hell. I’m missing out on all the fun.”

“All the more reason to recover fast,” Francis said, and indicated the bath. 

“Tsk. And here I was planning on staying sick forever.” He rinsed the toothbrush. “Blanky’s healthy as a horse, I presume? Only replied to my get-well email with a thumbs up.”

“Better than ever. There’s no stopping him. Took the missus bouldering on Sunday. I was babysitting the kids as penance. Never want to see Peppa Pig again.”

James snorted. Francis met his eyes and added gravely, “Whiny bastard will haunt my dreams.”

James opened his mouth to say something stupid like _God, I love you_. He pointed his toothbrush at the tub instead and said, “Close the faucet and drop the bomb, it should be fine now.”

“Do I just—?”

“Yeah, you just pop it in.”

Francis made a cartoonish noise and let go of the bathbomb. James’ heart leapt. _No, seriously, I will fall for you if you keep this up,_ he thought. _As if this crush wasn’t ridiculous enough, I will fall in love_.

Francis gaped at the water in true wonder. “It’s like art,” he announced. He distractedly patted Neptune’s head, who had become very interested in the process, too. “Pretty. Like the colour of your dress.”

“You should take one,” James said, ignoring how his knees went weak. He wasn’t strong enough to drop to them, so what was the _point_? “Do you have a tub?”

“I never— I just shower.”

“Treat yourself.”

Francis stared at him as if he’d never heard of the concept. Picked up a light blue sea salt ball without more persuading and turned it around his hand with some delighted puzzlement.

James wanted to gift him every bath bomb ever.

The one in the water fizzled one last time and dissolved.

“Well,” Francis said. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

 _Stay_ , James made his eyes beg. “Right,” he said.

Francis got up from the tub. With Neptune in there and James by the basin, the bathroom felt cramped, like they were standing too close to explain it away. The air was hot and humid. Francis’ blue eyes were cool like a secret lagoon. James was drowning. Not like in the Thames: this was a deliberate plunge, sinking into the deep and dissolving completely.

“Was there anything you needed?” Francis asked.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” James said, with what felt like his last breath. “I don’t want to impose on your schedule, but if you could—I really appreciate these visits, you’re—” _Loved, loved, loved_. “—too kind.”

“I’ll be here,” Francis promised; he reached out as if to brush a strand of hair away from James’ face, then thought better of it and dropped his hand.

James pulled at the coat’s cuff, urgent. He didn’t know what he meant by the gesture: it was instinctive. _Don’t leave_. He couldn’t demand that of Francis. Not yet; not today. He tugged at the coat again, stronger, awkward, and said, “Tell your cat I said hi.”

Francis smiled at him, the fine lines creasing around his eyes. “His name is Fagin.”

⚓

James woke with the novel sensation of breathing through his nose. It only lasted three minutes, but it happened. He felt inspired enough to attempt a round of morning yoga, without the proper techniques of pranayama. He even managed to relax into a handstand scorpion, but the posture was ruined by Neptune lunging at him. Some inelegant but very fun wrestling followed, then James picked him up like when he was a puppy and made chamomile tea with a hundred and seventy pounds of Newfoundland dog panting over his shoulder. He welcomed the burn in his muscles, a sensation he sorely missed. He felt well enough to go to work, but knew that Francis would send him right back home.

He’d be right to do so.

The sudden surge of energy was met with a heavy drop: by the afternoon, he was reduced to a couch potato again, barely able to lift the remote control. He’d gotten overconfident with his outfit, too: the pyjamas were banished to the wardrobe as he rocked a low-cut black tee with sweatpants, hair freshly washed. He wanted Francis to notice that he was getting better. Well enough to let Francis appreciate his lack of underwear, if he so fancied. A firm tug on his sweatpants was all that separated him from happiness.

He took resting seriously. He napped like he was training to be fit for shagging. God knew if he’d get even remotely lucky, but he was ready to tempt fate. He’d take anything Francis was ready to give: a refusal with good grace, an offer of a later date, or being bent over the sofa, taken from behind—taking Francis, if that was his preference; the sofa was used to, used _for_ , all manner of things.

He planned to be doing something attractive when Francis returned, lounging suggestively and/or listening to a lewd audiobook, but he happened to be in his burrito form, wrapped up tight in a blanket and watching David Attenborough on Netflix. Francis was early: there was no time to change. James dashed to the door with Neptune, unable to keep his excitement at bay. Took three deep breaths: managed two of them through his nose. He unlocked the door.

He thought he’d be used to seeing Francis at the entrance at this point, but the novelty hadn’t worn off. He was wearing a blue suit James has never seen on him before: it brought out his eyes, made his fair hair shine.

“Are you tired of chicken soup?” he asked.

“Never,” James said.

“Too bad. It’s carrots and sweet potatoes this time.”

“Potatoes mandatory?”

“That’s right.” Francis let himself in, brushing past him. James thought he caught a whiff of his aftershave. “We can even add garam masala; it’ll give you a good excuse to talk about India.”

James frowned. “We?” he vaguered as he watched Francis step out of his shoes. His canvas bag seemed quite packed.

“Didn’t have time to pop home. Grabbed groceries in Tesco on the go.”

James clutched his chest. He didn’t even try to hide the gesture. “You went on a grocery run for me?” he teased; made it sound like he was cooing, so if Francis didn’t want to admit to the domesticity of it all he’d have a way out.

Francis just levelled him with a gaze as he held up the bag so Neptune couldn’t reach it. “Of course.”

“I don’t deserve you,” James blurted out.

“Nonsense. I trust you have turmeric?” Francis beelined for the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

James was getting whiplash.

Trust Francis to bewilder a man.

He loved seeing Francis so comfortable: spilling the groceries on the counter, telling Neptune that he couldn’t have the onion, _absolutely_ not. James helped him locate the spices, pots and pans, and followed his command as he guided him through the recipe. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder by the cooker. James tried his best not to be vulgar with the stick blender. This easy intimacy was too important to risk for a practical joke.

James would ordinarily sacrifice anything for a laugh.

Not this.

Not Francis.

He was telling Francis about Mumbai. Not the good stories. Not the funny ones. Culture shock. The crowded railway. Not speaking Marathi—not even knowing the name of the language when he arrived, with all the arrogance of an exchange student ready to claim the world as his oyster. How the place humbled him: even after China, even after Turkey. People he met. Unforgettable conversations over chai and naan. The destruction of self-importance. Facing a complicated heritage at Madh Island in a Portuguese fortress, later occupied by British forces.

“But then you come to London and forget it all,” James said. “It’s survival of the fittest. I’m not even sure if it’s because of my travels that I still feel I haven’t quite arrived yet. I’ve always been a country boy. I’m still one at heart. I’m still wondering if this city will get the better of me, eventually. I love it here. Couldn’t go back to Hertfordshire—there’s no career for me there—but London won’t accept me, ever. It’s a ruthless place.”

“I hope you don’t see that as a personal failure,” Francis told him; James bit his lip and busied himself with grating ginger. He bloody well did. “London won’t ever feel like home. It’s just an exciting little place where one happens to live.”

Francis gave a contemplative stir to the pot, then brought the heat down. “There’s a town in County Down, Northern Ireland: Banbridge. I was born and raised there. When I was quite ready to leave, that’s when the first IRA bombing happened. Day before I went. Try not to feel like a refugee, with something like that. A kid from my old school was killed.”

“Jesus, Francis. I’m so sorry.” 

Francis smiled at him, fleetingly. “The first bombing,” he repeated. “Then two more, in my boring little town. Same place where I used to ride cows. When I was a child I thought things like this happened to other people, people who weren’t me, that I was safe if I remembered to close my door when dad got home. I was there on Newry Street when the car exploded. Wasn’t injured, but I was _there,_ visiting family. Blood on the pavement. It changes a man.”

His accent had gotten thicker; his face, paler. James put a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t to reassure him. Francis wouldn’t want his sympathy. It was a reminder: _You’re here. Whatever happened, whatever will happen, you’ve made it this far. You’re cooking carrot soup. Isn’t that wonderful, that you got to have an ordinary day like this, after everything?_

“It’s not easy, living,” Francis concluded. “Glad we’re both trying.”

“That’s a deal,” James announced and pulled his hand back to grab a mug of broth. He raised it, as if to toast. “To keep going.”

Francis grinned and held up a cup of sour cream. “To keep going,” he repeated.

They knocked the containers together, gazes locked. _I'm with you. You're not alone._

“Shit,” Francis said. “Soup’s burning.”

⚓

For a while, there was only the clinking of metal spoons on porcelain, polite slurping and the voice of David Attenborough going on about the cryosphere.

“I say,” James announced, “we make a good team.”

Francis nodded, slow, at ease. “I think so, too.”

They were sitting next to each other on the sofa, their thighs casually pressed together. James was burning up from that point of contact. The heat spread like fever. Francis had really good legs. This suit had a slimmer fit than his usual ironed trousers. He’d gotten rid of his jacket again. He looked absolutely delicious.

“A good soup. Our pride and joy.”

“Ah,” Francis said. “The soup. Yes.”

James bit the inside of his mouth. Stared into his bowl. He could settle for this: the companionship.

He wasn’t where he was, who he was, for not shooting for the moon. “What else will we make together?” he teased. It was a tolerable opening. Francis didn’t say anything, just smiled at him tightly. His whole posture was taut. Not apprehensive: unsure.

James set down the bowl with a definite click. The telly showed penguins huddling. He followed their cue. Nestled closer to Francis, as if it was natural, instinctive; as if his heart wasn’t beating in his throat when he settled his head on Francis’ shoulder.

He waited, with bated breath, for Francis to tense.

Francis melted.

He didn’t change his posture, but James could’ve sworn there was a new sort of warmth to it: a relaxation, an opening. They were both comfortable from what he could tell. He kept his eyes on the screen so he wouldn’t embarrass Francis: so he could just casually break the contact.

He didn’t.

He kept savouring the soup and kept close. James’ gaze dropped to Francis’ knees. He was sitting with his legs wide open. Rather unusual for him. His toes curled in his polka-dot socks. Cleared his throat. Didn’t say anything.

James made no move to urge him on. Francis was within his rights to take his time. James had been wanting this as long as he could remember. He could wait a little longer for Francis to come around. He’d only learnt recently that there was a possibility for that. He could just enjoy this moment and see what chances the future held. Whether they’d take them.

Francis settled his bowl aside. It wasn’t empty yet. It was a gesture of pretences abandoned: the soft thud as it was placed atop the coffee table resonated in James’ consciousness, made his mouth dry. It sounded final.

He peered up at Francis, slightly cross-eyed. Francis met his gaze. He looked determined, almost cross—not at James. He put his arm around him; James fit into the half-embrace snugly, as if it had always been his place. Francis touched his chin, gently; made James lift his head with his knuckles. Searched for something on his face: possibly ridicule, regret or fear.

He would only find unveiled want. James’ lips parted; his eyelids were heavy. He was begging—pathetically, maybe; he’d have been ashamed to be this exposed in front of past lovers. If you let your needs show, you could be denied them. He’d learnt that fast.

There was no point in keeping his defences up now.

He’d been hurt in the past. Nobody had been more cruel to him than himself; he’d denied himself a hundred things, deemed undeserved; lived as if he had a portrait rotting in an attic. Every compliment, every act of love he’d ever received had felt hollow and pointless: nobody was allowed to glimpse his truest self. He felt like he must’ve fooled them into liking him.

He trusted Francis to judge him. Decide what he wanted to refuse or give. James showed Francis all his pitiful, simpering need, evident on his face and even more obvious as he shifted in his seat: the movement drew Francis’ attention to the unmistakable line of James’ hardening cock in his sweatpants.

 _This is what I’ve been hiding,_ he thought _. I want you to want me. Have you noticed? How intense this need is? Do you know that all depends on this: for you to see me?_

_See me._

Francis closed his eyes.

Leant forward.

The kiss was slow, but still a surprise. It was so persistent: James felt like he couldn’t be sure of anything, just the fact that Francis was kissing him—the steady press of his lips; how he wasted no time licking into James’ mouth, lapping up his gasps. It was a stubborn kiss, refusing to be either rough or tentative.

James steadied himself by grabbing Francis’ knee. Francis pulled him closer, a warm palm splayed over his back. James let his hand slide up Francis’ thigh, exploring its softness, clawing at the trousers that kept the delicate skin hidden. Francis kissed him deeper. Encouraged, James hooked a leg over Francis’: climbed into his lap, never once breaking the kiss. Francis’ right hand dropped to his waist; the other was still cupping his face.

It was a shame James needed to breathe.

He pulled away panting; looked down at Francis, his wild eyes, his thin, spit-wet lips. James rolled his hips without quite meaning to. Francis’ firm grip tightened over his waist. James couldn’t read his face.

“What are you thinking?” he whispered. His tongue felt heavy; his lips were dully aching, demanding more of Francis’ kiss to bruise or heal.

“I think you’re an idiot,” Francis said stoically. Slipped his hand under James’ shirt, which stopped James from coming up with a sarcastic reply, too shocked by Francis’ casual touch. Francis caressed his back and looked him over with a puzzled expression, almost mournful. “You could have anybody. I know for a fact that you _do_ , regularly. Why would you want this, when it would take you just twenty minutes to chat up somebody more—? Christ, James, you could have a young, handsome bloke who’s eating from the palm of your hand and laughs at your bloody jokes; why me?”

“You laugh at my jokes,” James said defensively.

“Not at the obnoxious ones.” Francis licked his lips, as if he was trying to hold himself back, then said, under his breath, “Which is most of them.”

“I don’t know, Francis, what do you expect me to say?” James got hold of his shoulders to adjust his balance. He was straddling the lap of a man who questioned if he was in his right mind to be attracted to him. It wasn’t self-doubt, infuriatingly. James could tell that Francis had issues with his age, his appearance; old wounds from past relationships reopening. But that wasn’t it. Not all of it.

It dawned on him that Francis really, truly believed that James was way out of his league. Too good to be claimed.

Oh, the irony.

“Maybe do a PowerPoint,” Francis suggested weakly.

James caressed the side of his neck with his thumbs. “You love my PowerPoints.”

“Nothing else could make a five-minute report stretch into fifty so effectively.” Francis gently pinched the skin of his back. James’ cock responded, a thrill running through his body. He loved when Francis was being playful; he loved how it hid his vulnerability and how transparent the method was.

“Maybe it’s the way you slowly perish in front of my eyes as I make my way through the slides,” James said. “Or how you keep clicking your pen on your teeth. Maybe it’s because you’re kind, compassionate, somebody I could really trust and admire? Maybe it’s the sass or the arse or how hot you look when you want to throttle me. Beats me, Francis. Could be anything.”

Francis tilted his head to the side, eyebrows knitted. It was an almost comical display of bewilderment. The doubt in it eased as he met James’ gaze: how else could he respond to James’ confidence in him except by trusting him in return? He slid teasing fingers down James’ spine, discovering the geography of his bones. His touch halted by the border of James’ waistband.

“I wish I was more like you,” Francis said. “I never tried casual sex. Couldn’t share that with somebody knowing it would only be a memory.”

“I don’t expect this to be casual,” James said.

Francis pulled at his sweatpants, as if to test: _Can I really do this? Will you let me?_

James pushed himself up higher, clinging to Francis’ shoulder. Let him see the V of his hips, the line of neat hair exposed. Francis cupped his cock through the thick fabric, still testing. Fondling it. James bit back a pleased hiss, then thought, _What the hell_. Let his sigh be heard.

“I want to know you,” Francis said in a low voice, slightly hoarse. “Every way I can. I mistook you for somebody you aren’t for far too long."

James rolled his hips, rubbing his cock against Francis’ hand. “Somebody straight.”

Francis chuckled, stroked him softly. James couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t just go through the usual motions of touching his dick: pulling, jerking, fisting. Francis treated it as if it was any other part of James’ body, recognising the fragility, admiring the beauty.

“Even if you were,” Francis said, “straight, that is—you wouldn’t be the offensive oaf I took you to be, flirting with queer men for shits and giggles, peacocking about, basking in the knowledge that you could seduce just about anybody—that’s not you.”

James leant closer to Francis’ ear. He had a familiar scent James’ couldn’t quite place. “You still liked me,” he teased. “Even back then.”

“In a way,” Francis said. “I disliked you for being too likeable. My logic confuses even me.” He looked at his hand over James’ crotch with a calm expression. Well. This was the logical conclusion to all of that, wasn’t it? Francis held his gaze and asked frankly, “Can I see?”

“Oh, but what if my cock is too likeable?” James whined, hardly managing not to grin.

Francis was much better at keeping a straight face. “Some things never change. I still think you’re a brat.”

“Spoil me.” James revealed his half-hard cock, humbly on display. It stiffened further under Francis’ scrutiny. James missed the times he could pop a proper hard-on just by merely thinking of sex, but this was better, in a way: the relief that came when Francis touched him, knowing, _Oh yes, it’s alright, I’ll be able to do it._

“As dearly as your cheetah underwear is missed,” Francis said, “this is lovely.”

“About that—”

“No, don’t explain. You must leave me _something_ to judge.”

James scoffed, endeared, amused, easing into Francis’ tender touch. For a while, they didn’t speak; the only sound was skin on skin and the telly droning on in the background. It felt like a continuation of their domesticity: nothing earth-shattering, and all the more amazing for its apparent lack of magnitude. James felt like he could be caressed so indefinitely, even as his cock grew painfully heavy and oversensitive.

The documentary said something about mating. James felt a smirk on his lips before he knew he was smiling. “Hey, Francis?”

Francis’ hand stilled for a moment, clearly expecting what was coming. “Yes?” he said, exasperated.

“Did you know that the average James hoards about five to six boxes of condoms in his lair of a bedroom?”

Despite his best efforts, Francis chuckled. James was very smug about the joke landing, then astounded when Francis’ response turned out to be bending James over his shoulder and the sofa’s back. He was still straddling Francis’ lap, but his arse was shamelessly put on display. Francis tugged the waistband of the sweatpants further down, just under the jut of James’ firm buttocks.

James forgot to breathe.

He was staring at his room, astounded, hanging from the sofa. It felt like a new world, like he just stepped on the Moon. Neptune was sleeping on his pillow. _That’s right,_ James thought. _Don’t mind me. No biggie. I think my office crush is about to shag me right here._

“May I?” Francis asked.

“Anything,” James wheezed. There was the unmistakable sound of Francis wetting a finger. James covered his mouth. _Jesus fucking Christ._

Francis parted his cheeks. Put a slick finger over his hole, but didn’t push in, just tapped carefully. It was the weirdest, hottest sensation James could ever remember experiencing. His throat felt tight and sore. _Not now, not now, sod off, cold—_

“Full disclosure,” Francis said. “I never went all the way with a man.”

James blacked out for a moment. “Uh-huh?” he said.

“See: no casual sex.”

“But you’ve been pegged, right? Same principle.” There was silence. “Done anal?” James wagered.

Francis cleared his throat.

James twisted around, the best he could. “You _gotta_ try anal. Are you into it?”

“James,” Francis said, his finger still pressing against his hole. “I’m very much into the idea, yes.”

“Cheers, then. Lucky me.”

Francis manhandled him back onto his lap. James’ thighs caught in the sweatpants, restraining him. That was a lovely thought for a rainy day. Francis looked him over, like he was appraising a prize. James felt coveted and expensive, even as his nose blocked up again.

“You have everything in the bedroom, then,” Francis said.

“You have no idea.” James raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Why don’t you go ahead and make yourself comfortable? It’s your first time, I gotta douche for you.”

“I don’t mind—”

“Nobody minds until it happens. I’ll be right back.”

Maybe that particular line of conversation didn’t inspire romance, but James couldn’t resist a quick kiss: a peck on Francis’ lips, just for the hell of it, just because he was finally welcome to do it. Francis leant into the kiss and reached for him when James pulled away.

He interlaced their fingers and helped Francis stand. His sweatpants pooled to the ground in the process. He stepped out of them elegantly and took a calculated turn, allowing Francis to admire the curve of his arse as he bent to pick them up.

“Door on the left,” he said, heading for the bathroom with swaying hips and doing his best not to peek back. If he did, he’d get impatient. Fall to his hands and knees right on the carpet.

 _Holy crap_ , he thought while he quickly refreshed himself by the basin.

 _Fuck me_ , _Francis bloody Crozier is in my bed_ , he pondered as he hooked up the shower enema. The process wasn’t dignified, but he felt like a rockstar. Might’ve felt inspired to sing a little Led Zeppelin.

⚓

His heart was full of song as he opened the door in all his naked glory. Francis had drawn in the heavy velvet curtains—that was anticipated; the candlelight wasn’t.

“I found them on the bookshelf,” Francis explained, lit by the fragrant flicker of tea candles lined up on the mahogany bedside table. He was sitting on the cashmere quilt in a half-buttoned shirt, long underwear and sock garters.

James had to fight a jungle of houseplants to get to him, but he fought with all his might. Got into bed as if the floor was lava, quite ready to climb Francis.

“It’s so lovely, you gorgeous bastard.”

Francis had the audacity to laugh at him as James wrestled him to his back, straddled his hips. “You’re easily wooed,” he said.

James looked at his darling face. How his collar hugged his soft chin: a very kissable feature. The set of his jaw, the lines framing his shining eyes; his hair, once ginger; his freckles. “Not my fault you’re beautiful,” he said.

Francis blinked at him, dumbfounded. “You said something about condoms,” he remarked at length.

“Lest we forget.” James sat back on his heels, quite comfortable with Francis between his legs. That was where he belonged. He kept stealing glances at Francis while he opened a drawer, appreciating the glimpses the loose white shirt allowed, even peering over his shoulder to take in once again the boxers and the garters. Did Francis wear garters every day? Was it for their date? He couldn’t decide which version he liked best. He was browsing through the condoms blindly, but once he actually turned to look, he realised he had no idea which one to choose. “Any preference?”

“No taste, no colour,” Francis replied instantly, even though he didn’t look away from James’ cock. “Texture, if you like. Do you have lube?”

“Do I ever,” James scoffed, producing a luxurious bottle that had been passed around like the eucharist on the last sex party he’d been to. The sleek black glass with the metal dispenser and carved brand name failed to have the desired effect, as Francis just merely nodded. James wasn’t disheartened: they were men with different experiences. They could find common ground in the pleasure they were about to share. “What do you usually use?” he chatted easily as he squirted some lubricant into his palm.

“Nivea hand cream,” Francis said.

 _That_ gave James pause. 

“Not for foreplay,” Francis hastened to add. “Alone time.”

“Say wank,” James asked, reaching behind to prep himself. “Say you use hand cream to wank.”

Francis frowned. “Are you one of those people who get off on swearing? Isn’t ‘wank’ too mild for dirty talk, you think?”

“You’re right. Say you love how the cream feels on your dick when you’re jacking off.”

“I don’t _love_ it, it’s convenient. Cheap.”

James barked a laugh as he slid a finger inside. “Say you’ve thought of me,” he teased.

“I have,” Francis said seriously.

James had to kiss him. Pressed his whole body against Francis’ felt Francis press back—felt the brush of Francis’ cock over his own through the boxer’s soft fabric; the maddening, slick heat of his mouth. Francis must’ve thought they still weren’t close enough: he grabbed a handful of James’ buttocks and pushed a careful finger in alongside James’.

“I prepped in the shower,” James told him. “I’m just adding more lube.”

“You’re so tight,” Francis said, awed and somewhat alarmed.

“Did you want to feel me out?” James squeezed around their fingers. Francis had a wonderfully soft hand, strong and clever: not the usual bumping about or routine fingerbanging. Francis curled his finger expertly: if James had a G-spot, it would’ve been a direct hit.

“Once when I thought about you,” Francis confessed, “I thought about fingering you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

James rubbed against him, his precome smearing over Francis’ tented boxers. “You’re not going to elaborate?” he whispered.

“No,” Francis said. James kissed the shit-eating grin off his face as Francis massaged him, knuckle-deep, then hooked in another finger, scissoring them around James’.

“When was it?”

“Secret Santa.”

“I had to skip it last year.”

“I know. Year before.”

James scowled; the expression quickly changed as Francis twisted his fingers. “Bloody hell—! How long have you been wanting this?”

There was regret in Francis’ eyes as he said, “A while.”

“I want you inside,” James announced. “Now.”

Francis indulged him by reaching for the condoms with his left. It was soon discovered he’d need both hands. He pulled out reluctantly; James instantly missed him.

“I don’t think you should ride me,” Francis remarked casually. His slick fingers were giving him some trouble with the wrapper.

“I’ll let you know that I was voted dick riding champion of the year by at least three members of the Trinity Hall Boat Club.”

“Must’ve missed that part of your CV.”

“I bet they have a little golden plaquet in my honour,” James mused. “They should.”

“You’re not riding dick today, you’re ill.” Francis managed to open the condom. James would’ve argued if he wasn’t looking forward to this moment.

“How do you want me?” he offered instead.

“I trust you’ve spooned before?” Francis asked in a tone that made spooning sound like a military operation.

James eagerly got into position, rolling to his side with his back to Francis. “Are you usually the big spoon?” he asked. Snuggling Francis was just as exciting as the promise of sex: he was made to be cuddled, with that wide chest of his.

“I’m usually...a butterknife,” Francis muttered and left it at that.

James decided not to press the matter and listened to Francis’ even breathing, fabric shifting, the wet sound of the condom being rolled on. There was something undeniably erotic in not seeing Francis do it: relying on his other senses as the weight of Francis pressed up to him, his heat instantly warming James’ skin. That faint, familiar scent again. James recognised it finally: it was the bathbomb he’d given to Francis, sea salt and sage. He breathed it in, eyes drifting shut. The shadows of the burning candles danced before him. Who knew that Francis was such a romantic? A _softie_? And who would’ve thought James would ever have the chance to find out this darling secret? Having Francis with him was a gift: every second, every minute.

James purred, pleased, as Francis hooked an arm under his leg and helped him lift it for a better angle. James was eager for some tender lovemaking: hearing Francis’ soft sighs in his ear, moving with him, encouraging him to find a rhythm. Coming, maybe. He could take care of that himself. It was about letting Francis know him: giving over something fragile and hitherto private about himself.

There was a blunt, delicious pressure at his entrance. He moaned, inviting it in. He overdid it, but the emotion was genuine—trusting Francis to take care of him, make him feel exquisite. He wanted Francis to remember him as a lewd, graceful creature in his bed, fay-like, enchanting. He stretched to show off the sharp, elegant lines of his body with a contented sigh.

It caught in his throat.

Francis was...big. It must’ve been just the tip, with the careful way he was easing himself in, but the thickness was already _noticeable_. It somehow never occurred to James that Francis could be...packing. Sure, he’d made some outfit choices in the past that made James wonder, but it was hard to tell if he was a shower or a grower.

The truth was out.

Francis had a big, fat cock.

James’ eyes opened, then widened as the stretch increased. His mouth fell slack. How was this even—? Did this battering ram really belong to his lovely Francis? The one with the button nose? The adorable gap between his teeth? The earflap hats? The occasional lisp?

Not like James was complaining. He remembered to relax his muscles and breathe through the process: no sensual moans and graceful writhing—he had to be technical about it. Work for it. He was quite grateful for Francis’ hand holding his thighs open: his instinct would’ve been to close his legs and protect his soft spots from this apex predator of a cock.

“All right?” Francis asked, nestling close as he bottomed out. He filled James completely: it’d been a while James had felt so stuffed full of cock, pinned on it helplessly, barely able to squeeze around the girth.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“I could go slower.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Just give us a shout if it gets too rough.”

James bit his lips. Now it was a challenge. “I like it rough,” he said. “Don’t hold yourself back, fuck me through the mattress.”

Francis nuzzled at his nape, pressed a kiss there and obeyed. If only they weren’t so competitive, James would’ve had some hope of sitting in the foreseeable future; keeping his organs where God intended them to be; breathing. As it were, he was starting to get fucked within an inch of his life, grunting and gasping, his head lolling back onto Francis’ shoulder.

“I got you,” Francis said, slamming back in, out and in. James loved and appreciated every dragging inch. His toes curled; his eyes rolled back in his head. Francis was impossibly close, impossibly deep, claiming every part of James’ spread arse, which was dripping with lube and burning from the stretch. He would’ve howled, if it wasn’t for some remaining semblance of self-control. He did tear at the sheets, but he was sure nobody would blame him for it, not with Francis rolling his hips so inexhaustibly.

Of course he’d be the same in bed as behind his desk: deliciously determined, utterly focused on James’ pleasure. Every long pull of his cock was a calculated maneuver to achieve the best effect; even how he held James, gripping his trembling leg, close to bruising, yanking him back onto his cock.

Somehow he never thought that Francis would be good in bed, or anything beyond average, in fact. This was nothing like the sweet rollicking he’d imagined. He rolled onto his stomach, almost hanging off the side of the bed, and buried his face in the pillow. Screamed into it as the angle inside of him shifted. Bit it. Francis didn’t stop fucking him, now with his weight atop him, rocking into him with such vigor that James was nearly pushed over the edge.

He decided he wouldn’t just succumb to an easy orgasm without giving it his best shot.

Shaking, he got to his hands and knees. He’d show Francis what he was made of. Fuck him _back_. Respond to every onslaught with a push, squeeze and release, circle his hips and let his entire body move with it, build up a punishing pace until both of them were trembling and desperate.

“Easy,” Francis said softly. Placed a hand on James’ nape and guided him down to his forearms, chest pressed into the mattress, arse still in the air. James couldn’t help but let himself be manhandled. His aching cock hung heavy between his spread thighs, slamming forward with every sharp thrust of Francis’ hips. James had quite forgotten to touch it. That had never happened before. He loved playing with his cock while a gorgeous partner worked his arse open.

All he could do now was drool into the pillow.

Maybe he was still sick.

“Please look at me,” Francis said. His gentle voice was so at odds with the hard jabs of his cock, or perhaps not—he’d given James exactly what he asked for, fucking him senseless.

James managed to turn his head to the side. It helped. He was no longer suffocating, for a start. Francis reached down, brushed a lock of hair away from his glistening face. James was _sweating_. In his prime, he could take not one but two cocks, and not a _spot—_

“You feel so good. Damn good, James. Touch your pretty cock for me.”

James knew for a fact it was impossible to raise his hands. They were made of lead. They were boneless.

“Touch it for me?” he asked. At least his voice was normal. Almost conversational.

Francis scoffed as he got hold of James’ cock. “From champion to pillow prince,” he observed.

James grunted in protest.

“I don’t mind it,” Francis said, giving an encouraging jerk. His hand was firm and calloused; his technique could’ve used some finesse. His snapping hips more than made up for it. “I hope I’m spoiling you proper. Men like you are made to be spoiled. You’re doing so well.”

James’ breath hitched, almost a sob. He felt lightheaded at the praise. He no longer knew where he ended and Francis began. Every pulse, every twitch was shared; the wet heat, the noises; they were so wrapped into each other they felt like one being. When he started coming, he didn’t even know if it was him or Francis: there was blinding pleasure and shaking and a muffled shout—his own, stifled by the pillow.

Francis pulled him up to a sitting position. He went limply, back pressed to Francis’ heaving chest, vision blurred. Francis held him up with a hand across his torso, watched his softening cock bob with each cant of his hips. There was come glistening all over James’ stomach.

“Okay there?” Francis asked.

“Yeah,” James gasped, mouth dry, his voice sounding like it was coming from afar. The only thing holding him in place was Francis’ touch, the hard rigidity of his cock, stretching James as he convulsed around it. He didn’t want Francis to stop; he needed him inside forever. “Please use me. Use my body.”

Francis groaned and buried his head in James’ shoulder. One weakened jab, another: he was finished. They were panting for breath together, sweat-slick and burning. James ached to stay like this always.

“Don’t pull out,” he asked hoarsely. “Not yet.”

“The condom—”

“Crap. Yes.”

Francis pressed an apologetic kiss to his neck. The world swam. The lights of the candles blurred like distant stars. Reality crept back from the edges: his rational mind told him to let go, that he’d only have to part from Francis for a minute, just to welcome him back again.

James climbed off Francis and fell to his belly in a graceless heap. Fuck the laundry. He felt too good to care, lazy and boneless.

“Rubbish bin under the night table,” he muttered, watching Francis tie off the condom, hair ruffled, his boxers tugged down. He looked so good doing this ordinary, routine thing; his freckled chest was flushed, and his face, too, a charming blush reddening his cheeks. His glistening cock caught James’ attention; he smiled at it fondly. “Pocket squares in the drawer.”

“You use pocket squares to wipe off?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Some of us are still stuck with the old come rag,” Francis rasped as he disposed of the condom and opened the drawer. James grinned to himself and poked at Francis. He could still feel him inside.

“I think you’ll find that silk feels really good on your skin after sex,” he said. “It’s also easier to clean than they say.”

Francis responded with a noncommittal grunt, picking a blue pocket square to wipe his cock and hands. He absent-mindedly pulled the boxers back on and even started doing up the shirt’s buttons.

James groaned. “No. Get naked with me. I have a dicks-out policy.”

“I can see,” Francis said, handing him a pearl-white pocket square.

“C’mere. You’ve been away forever. At this rate, you’ll never find out if I’m any good at post-coital cuddling. Look, ‘m not even sticky now. You’re really missing out.”

Francis shook his head ruefully as he settled back into bed. “Listen to you, chatty as ever. If I knew you shut up during sex, I would’ve buggered you sooner.”

“Piss off,” James said as he pulled Francis into his arms. Francis put his head under his chin with a blissed-out, uncaring ease.

“Cock shuts you up and it doesn’t even have to be in your mouth,” he mused. “What an insight.”

“Thought about shutting me up with your cock a lot?”

“When I didn’t know any better.”

James chuckled, ran a teasing finger down Francis’ back. He was cuddling his favourite arsehole. His heart was full.

“It’s good talking to you,” Francis admitted, shimming out of his boxers. “I love your pretty moans, too.”

James’ cock gave a hopeful little twitch, but he knew round two was not happening. He appreciated the reveal of Francis’ buttocks all the same.

“I’m sure we can find some balance,” James pondered, “where we talk but then you make me moan.”

“One would hope,” Francis said, kicking off his boxers as if it were the most natural thing. The shirt stayed. His pert little arse looked delectable with the hem half-covering it.

James swallowed and gripped a cheek, squeezed it encouragingly. “Let’s try?”

“You’re asking me out while fondling my arse,” Francis mumbled, sounding unimpressed. There was a hopeful little tremble he couldn’t quite hide.

“Let me take your arse on a date.”

“Only if you put on the cheetah pants.”

“Fond of them, are you?”

“Fond of you.”

⚓

November came with heavy sheets of rain. The drops pitter-pattered on the event hall’s transparent ceiling; the sound of it was rather soothing combined with the soft lobby music playing from speakers, the pleasant chatter of the fundraiser’s guests.

“Should’ve went with Led Zeppelin,” Francis remarked. Took a sip from his root beer, made a face at the taste. James could read his nervousness from the way he placed his weight back onto his heels. He put a reassuring hand on the small of Francis’ back, let him arch into his touch. His heart thudded. Soothing Francis always made him feel special: it was like taming a wounded, proud beast.

“At ease, soldier,” he said, dropping his deep voice even lower so it was no more than an intimate whisper. He caressed Francis’ back, felt him melt further. “It’s going well. My family will be here any second.”

Francis tensed again. “Is that supposed to make me relax?” Francis asked, knocking his glass against his teeth as he downed the root beer.

“You’ll love them.”

“Can still be unrequited, that’s my concern.”

James opened his mouth to argue with that, tell Francis how easy it was to love him, but Will must’ve sensed an opportunity to interrupt him, and entered the lobby just as James began the sentence. Will’s elegant coat ballooned out rather dramatically, and he was waving a brochure around with such bravado only his sibling could possess. Francis stepped back, startled by the disruption. James’ hand fell from his back.

“Fitzy, you didn’t tell me!” Will called; moderated his volume as he reached them in three long, excited strides. “You’re exhibiting Cracroft!” he sputtered, thrilled. “How did you ever convince her?”

“I have friends in all the right places.” James accepted Will’s swift embrace, then guided his attention to his apprehensive companion. “This is my partner, Francis. Francis, Will.”

“Pleasure!” Will took Francis’ hand. The handshake was firm, business-like, but Francis didn’t forget to smile, however tightly. James nodded at him encouragingly. “You’re the mastermind behind the event, I hear?” Will said. “Our James made it sound like a charity bake!”

“Technically, it is,” Francis said; no follow-up was offered. Will looked eager to ask him something, but didn’t seem able to find the words; he was full of the sort of bubbling energy that often followed his periods of melancholy. Francis confessed to struggles of depression, too: James hoped he’d recognise a kindred soul.

Bess’ arrival saved Will from his frantic search for smalltalk starters; she was fussing with an umbrella, her heels dragging mud.

“Way to leave a lady in the rain,” she grumbled.

“They have—”

“I know, honey.” She touched his arm with a tired, but forgiving smile, then offered her hand to a newly nervous Francis. “You must be the boyfriend! I’m Bess. Love the suits.”

“There was no coordinated effort behind them whatsoever,” James said. It made Francis grin; that was all that mattered. He introduced himself with relative ease, fetching in the matching burgundy suit they’d got together from Savile Row. Francis had been anxious to look the part of the host, especially since he’d known he’d leave most of the talking to James.

“There _is_ food,” Will noticed, tapping the brochure to his chin. James followed his gaze to the tables laden with baked goods and mournfully guarded by Tozer and Gibson; Des Voeux and Armitage patrolled with refreshments; Pilkington, Diggle and the rest were in the kitchen.

“As the old saying goes,” Francis said with a noticeable effort to sound jovial, “when your team gets tangled up in corporate fraud, you must make them atone with a charity bake.”

James was worried Francis’ awkward little joke wouldn’t land, but Bess snorted. “What a delightfully specific _bon mot_.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Corporate fraud?” Will asked with concern, eyebrows pinched. He shot another glance at the tables and the mingling guests.

“Organised by a certain Cornelius Hickey. We suspect it’s not his real name,” James explained, reaching for Francis. He stepped closer to him, shoulder-to-shoulder as if to demonstrate they were a team. A team of vigilantes bringing down swindlers like Hickey. James felt taller with Francis by his side, insurmountable even in the face of disgrace. “Hickey volunteered for catering at Rainbow Parade, approved nonexistent supplier invoices, diverted the budget to Mr. Heather’s account—who happens to be in a coma, and whose account was accessed recently by Mr. Hickey pretending to be a relative.”

Bess hissed. “For shame!”

“But we believe the rest of the men had limited knowledge of his plan,” Francis chimed in. James didn’t necessarily share his optimism, but respected the hope evident in his voice. Francis loved his employees, perhaps more than they sometimes deserved. James could only hope to one day learn to be as generous as his Francis.

“Mr. Tozer _was_ furious when he learnt about the account,” he allowed. “There were tables flipped over.”

“Mr. Hickey’s,” Francis supplied, clearly pleased.

“His cacti died before their prime,” James added ruefully.

“If they were ever alive. Seemed more upset about the broken MacBook.”

Will whistled. “Never a boring day at Erebus Voyages, huh?”

“No,” James and Francis said in unison, with the same tone of exasperation. Bess barked a surprised laugh and Will beamed. Francis squeezed James’ hand, who felt strangely flustered by this accidental reveal of how often he and Francis were thinking the same thing, the unit they’d become.

“My favourite detail,” James blabbed, “my favourite detail is that Hickey managed to pull his little stunt by making his mates prepare all the food for Rainbow Carnival themselves, by hand, with ingredients from Mr. Hodgson’s prize-winning vegetable garden—which is how we found out they make a quite capable catering team with reliable supplies.”

“Brilliant,” Will said. The mood was much improved: James didn’t miss Bess’ fond glance at their interwoven fingers.

“Anyhow,” James said, fighting off a proud blush as he held onto Francis, “this is how Francis came to the idea of this fundraiser—to take this unfortunate event and turn it into something positive: we collaborated with charities working against climate change. Since biscuits and vegetable dips might fail to capture the public imagination, it was decided to include an art exhibition, with the help of talented acquaintances.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Francis said, squeezing his hand again, “you organised the whole damn thing.”

“I’m good at organising; I just need you to keep my ideas in check.” The admission of it came easily; the recognition of it was still nothing short of wonderful. The realisation, each day, that he had a partner to count on: that whatever difficulties they’d face, Francis would be in his corner; and he in Francis’.

“It’s not even the full story,” Francis said. “We had some—problems with the budget recently. Sir John got it into his head that we needed roller coasters on board, when James didn’t even have the funding to employ lifeguards and my green economics budget was...the same as usual. James helped me veto the decision.”

“I also have dedicated lesbian lifeguards now,” James boasted, then remembered to add, “all thanks to Goodsir’s initiative.”

“But it was _you_ ,” Francis reminded him, “who pointed out to me that we could use this event to demonstrate to Sir John how much the public cares about our dedication to renewable resources.”

James waved the praise away with his free hand, but couldn’t help a toothy smile. He hoped he guessed right: he’d spotted Sir John in the crowd earlier, looking quite pleased with a caramelized onion dip, talking to a group of investors. Jane had seemed quite sullen, but Sophia’s involvement must’ve softened her opinion. One could hope.

“You see, Sir John didn’t take the veto well,” Francis explained, surprising all by his willingness to share an anecdote. He didn’t quite look Will or Bess in the eye, but his raspy words didn’t once halt or stumble. “His pride was wounded. He accused me of seducing James for my own professional gains.”

Bess clapped, laughing; Will kept a straight face. “Did you, though? Seduce him?” he asked seriously.

“How could you,” James joined him, looking at Francis in mock-shock, delighted by the tired quirk of his eyebrow. “I trusted you.”

“My own baby brother!”

“Whored out to reduce carbon emission.”

“Your innocence—ruined.” 

“If you’ve could only have saved me, as my seducer conspires to save the planet!”

“Deflowered for flowers!”

“Snared into carnal desire; the pleasures of the flesh exchanged for a less meat-focused menu on board!”

“Oh, that I could’ve stopped it!” Will reached for him; James grasped his hand tearfully. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bess and Francis exchange a meaningful glance.

“Are they often like this?” Francis asked.

“Always. They’ll keep it up for hours.”

Will dropped the act instantly and James’ hand with it. “I wanted to check out the exhibition, actually.

“Oh, see you around, then,” James said in a perfectly normal tone, as if nothing had happened. Francis groaned softly. Bess patted his shoulder in sympathy.

“Welcome to the family.”

“That wasn’t too terrible,” Francis remarked as he and James watched them leave, Will holding Bess’ hand.

James put an arm around his hips and said, gently teasing, “They _love_ you.”

“They don’t seem to hate me,” Francis allowed. He crossed his arms over his chest, a tad defensive, but leaned into James’ half-embrace all the same.

James nuzzled his sideburns. “Fair warning, Will and I _are_ insufferable together.”

“You’re quite a handful on your own,” Francis said, the tender affection in his tone making James dizzy, reeling with the strength of his own devotion.

He resisted an inappropriate kiss in public, but leant close to Francis’ ear and whispered into it, “That’s not what you said last night.”

“You were wearing lingerie,” Francis countered. “I cannot be held accountable for whatever I said.”

“What if I told you I’m wearing lingerie right now?”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Remember how I’d slipped back in the bathroom before we set out?” James risked a tiny nib on Francis’ ear, then pulled back.

Francis’ pupils were dark and fat. “The emerald set?” he asked, voice unmistakably raspy.

“Please. It’s your big day. Of course I got new ones for the occasion.”

“What colour?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

Francis pawed at James’ chest, as if he could tell the colour by touch alone, feel the delicate lace trimming of the bralette through the layers of James’ shirt, waistcoat and jacket. “You just want me to walk around here with a hard prick.”

“I’d be very impressed if you did.”

“Suppose we don’t have ten minutes for us in the loo?”

“No,” James said; licked his lips as he met Francis’ hungry gaze. “We have one minute. Just a peek. So you know what’s waiting for good boys who socialise.”

“Damn you,” Francis gritted out. Took James’ arm and all but dragged him to the bathroom; the process was significantly slowed by well-meaning guests offering congratulations, having questions or God forbid, comments. James was simpering the whole way, savouring how much the mere mention of kinky underwear was enough to rile Francis up after five months of near-continuous fucking and the fact that they had accidentally moved in together. 

Francis slammed him against the door the minute it closed behind them, scrambling to get his shirt open. James hoped they’d have the time to discover his lace knickers together. His dazed mind entertained the thought of sneaking into a stall like Francis suggested. Lending him a hand.

Their lips clashed in a devouring kiss. Francis pressed his thigh between James’ spread legs, pulled his hair. Nobody could come in if they just stayed like this, James realised.

“Don’t mind _me_ ,” a voice said.

They turned to the intruder with more exasperation than alarm; Francis was reluctant to pull back and stood in a way that shielded James from anyone’s searching gaze. It was just Hickey, halfway through the window.

“This doesn’t have to be awkward for any of us,” Hickey said.

“If you’re about to offer some shady deal or try to blackmail, just forget it,” James replied, buttoning his collar up with no apparent hurry.

“Why would I do that?” Hickey asked innocently, all baby blue eyes and everything. His gaze briefly shifted to Francis, silent and stoic. “I have every right to be here. This is a public event.”

“You could’ve used the front door, then,” Francis said.

James wished he could snap a photo of the face Hickey made.

“I just wanna talk to Billy,” he said, quickly regaining his flippantly cheery manner. “He’s not answering my messages.”

“That may be because he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I won’t know until I _ask_ , huh?”

“I’m not letting you harass an employee,” Francis announced, stepping closer. Hickey crawled through the window all the way in answer. It would’ve been more effective if he didn’t look like a soaked rat. Francis was towering over him like a pest control agent with a personal vendetta. “If you want to talk to Gibson, we shall escort you.”

“How kind of you to offer,” Hickey said. He tried to wipe his hands clean on his skinny jeans in vain. Even his hoodie was wet. James couldn’t guess his plan: Hickey in his prime would’ve marched in proudly in a suit, blended in, charmed his way to free champagne. It seemed that court had an effect on him, no matter how smugly he snickered through his hearing. “Shall we, then, gentlemen? If you’re quite finished.”

James just rolled his eyes at the pathetic affront and opened the door. Hickey combed his hair back; it didn’t help. Francis trailed behind him, upper lip stiff. That was a dangerous look: Hickey was a fool not to flee from it.

His appearance went quite unnoticed: the guests didn’t know him, and fellow employees turned their back. Hickey kept smiling as if it didn’t affect him. Maybe it didn’t. James focused on Francis, his cold determination as he marched them through the event hall, that protective glint in his eye: _Try and harm those I care for_.

It was attractive in the most distracting way.

James had to compose a mental pep talk about the merits of delayed gratification, convince himself that the privacy of their home and all the indulgence it offered would be far better than the thrill of a quickie in the loo. He was still convinced he’d just fuck Francis on the hallway floor.

They rounded a corner; Gibson tensed the moment he saw them. Busied himself with biscuits, red in the face. Tozer stepped up to him, concerned; his face fell when he noticed Hickey.

“Hey,” Hickey beamed at Gibson, ignoring the way Tozer glared at him. Maybe that was a mistake. James inched closer to stop Tozer from homicide. It’d be a shame to get his apron bloody.

“I’m not talking to you,” Gibson said, addressing the table as he stacked biscuits on a tray. They crumbled in his shaking hands. 

“Babe, babe. You didn’t hear my side of the story.”

Gibson blinked, bit his lips. With some effort, he said, “I trust my judgement.”

“You don’t have all the facts.”

“I know enough. Leave me be.”

“You know you can’t—”

“He told you to leave it,” Francis snapped. His tone of command made all of them straighten up, even Hickey. “You won’t disrespect his explicit wish. Are we done here?”

“Bit eager to silence me, sir?” Hickey smirked. Gibson blinked again, rubbed at his forearm. Tozer put a hand on his shoulder, then turned to Hickey. James was ready to jump between them, but Tozer’s tone was deadly calm and terribly even.

“You’re not the victim of this story. I know you’d like to be. You aren’t.”

Hickey scoffed, amused, and pointed at himself, an eyebrow cocked. “I’m no suckup, at least. Hope Mr. Crozier will give you a raise for your loyalty, but I reckon you’re doing this shit for free, eh, Billy?”

“Mr. Crozier offered to pay,” Gibson said silently. Managed to meet Hickey’s eyes for the first time. “We refused.”

Hickey rarely looked surprised. He was flabbergasted now. Francis nodded to Gibson and Tozer and escorted Hickey away. He followed silently, eyes shifting around in silent calculation. _Let him plot_ , James thought. Hickey kept making the mistake of underestimating Francis.

As James followed them to the exit, he felt his chest swell with pride. Francis had always been a respected boss; he was liked now, since he opened up. It was gradual, like the melting of old ice; James knew he had a part in it, warming him, but it was Francis’ own resolve that broke his guard down. He let his employees feel appreciated, safe. He needn’t be cheerful or chatty: he had James for that. His level-headed directive was perfectly paired with James’ laid-back style, who no longer felt compelled to bark commands or pretend to have ridiculously high standards. Neither of them had to masquerade as anybody else but themselves.

What a reward it was: just to be.

The door opened, the smell of water and approaching winter brushing in. It chilled James; he stepped closer to Francis. Silna entered, arm-in-arm with Goodsir and Tuunbaq on a leash. They stilled when they noticed Hickey. Goodsir’s gaze hardened like steel, and Silna made the face one would stepping into dogshit.

“I’m just leaving,” Hickey assured them cheerfully. “Good boy.” He reached to pet Tuunbaq; he snapped at his hand and barely missed. Hickey danced back with nervous laughter; nobody joined in. He fled with his head ducked, tail between his legs.

“How do you sign ‘good riddance?’” James asked. Silna made a universal gesture at Hickey’s back with her middle finger, then signed something quick at Francis.

Francis took Tuunbaq’s leash, apprehensive. “She wants to look around, so we’re to babysit Tuunbaq.”

“Okay, we’re babysitting Tuunbaq,” James said. Francis and him both looked at the dog. You didn’t turn your back on Tuunbaq. Not if you wanted to live.

“We’ll be back in a jiffy,” Goodsir said, and scratched Tuunbaq’s suspiciously round ears.

James wasn’t _sure_ he was a dog.

He wasn’t sure he was a dog at all.

“I suppose we just shouldn’t make sudden movements,” he said.

“Or any movement,” Francis said. Tuunbaq thrashed his head and pulled on the leash, straining to follow his owner. “Hey! Hey, it’s okay. I’m Francis Crozier. You know me.” Despite all instincts of self-preservation, he offered his palm for Tuunbaq to sniff.

“I admire your courage,” James remarked sincerely.

“I’m thinking about my reward, just so you know,” Francis said. “When we get home. Reckon it’s velvet. I know it’s velvet. I know you’ll look lovely in it. Do you think you could top me tonight? In your pretty things?”

“There’s a high probability I’ll do whatever you wish gladly. Look, even _he_ likes you.”

Francis had just noticed that Tuunbaq was poking his legs with his nose, as if asking for pets. He patted Tuunbaq’s head awkwardly. Tuunbaq let him.

“Well,” Francis said. “How about that?”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings:** bi guy has a crush on somebody he thinks is straight / a recovering alcoholic is given booze without his consent or knowledge and gets slightly tipsy / mention of IRA bombings in Northern Ireland, including the death of a child / passing reference to Francis’ physically abusive father / the word ‘brat’ is used in a sexual context / Hickey does a fair amount of gaslighting
> 
> The title is from Anne Carson's brilliant translation of Orestes. Hasan Minhaj's [The Real Cost of Cruise Ships](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0nCT8h8gO1g) episode on _Patriot Act_ was my main source for corporate shenanigans at Erebus Voyages.
> 
> My warmest thanks to Liv for her beautiful beta work (and for her amazing [twitter](https://twitter.com/icicaille_), which convinced me to sell my soul to the series), and @ktula for the proofreading and encouragements (keep an eye out for their [terror fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula)!)
> 
> You can [reblog ](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/189290931316/rotten-work-james-fitzjames-coo-of-erebus) / [retweet ](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1198981701793439744) the fic and give an author her wings ✨ plain text version [here](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/189310468036/rotten-work-forautumniam-the-terror-tv)  
> || find me on tumblr [@longstoryshortikilledhim](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com)


End file.
